Red Skies
by Valerie J
Summary: This story is UNFIINISHED and is on permanent hiatus. If the rude demands to finish it continue, I will simply take it down. Summary: Sequel to "Sail Away". Harm and Mac work to stop a far-reaching terrorist plot.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The President of the United States was an extremely busy man. At the moment, he was seated behind his massive desk in the Oval Office, shirt sleeves rolled up and tie loose, as a stream of people went to and fro with papers for the President to either look at, sign, or both. When the phone rang, it was a welcome distraction.

"Mr. President, it's David Cunningham on line 2." 

The President thanked his secretary and hit the appropriate button on the phone. Dave Cunningham was the Deputy Director of Intelligence over at CIA, a man who'd spent twenty years becoming an expert on the Middle East back when everyone still thought the Soviet Union was the only significant enemy left in the world.

"Trouble, Dave?" the President said. The DDI wouldn't be calling just to chat.

"Maybe, sir." The President envisioned the other man's long, sallow face. "Remember those rumors we were picking up just after the mess with Kabir and his dirty nuke?"

Invisible to the man on the other end of the line, the President rolled his eyes. He didn't have the time or capacity to remember everything people told him. That's why he had advisors.

"Remind me."

"A couple of our people over there got wind of some kind of internal purge going on inside Al Queda, or its remains, anyway. We never could get any concrete information, but our best guess is that Kabir gave something away when he tried to blow up our carrier group. He wasn't very high up in their hierarchy—more than a flunky, but not one of the guys making the decisions. When his brother killed himself, he apparently decided to strike out on his own, which is what led to the incident with the carrier."

The President stared at the ceiling for a moment while he thought. "These folks are all semi-autonomous anyway, Dave. What makes you think he was crossing his own people?"

"We didn't at first. But then the bodies started to pile up and the only explanation being whispered around over there is that Kabir compromised the grand plan with his little stunt, and the powers that be were making sure no one else had ideas of doing the same." 

The President didn't get where he was by being either stupid or inattentive. He immediately picked up on the most important piece of information in the DDI's spiel. "What grand plan?"

"That would be why I'm calling you, Mr. President. We don't know. But it's the first significant indication we've had that there _is_ one."

The President muttered curses under his breath. "Have your people put together a paper for me, Dave. Their best guess. I want to know what they might be planning."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that it?"

"Yes. Oh—one other thing, sir." He suddenly sounded uncertain.

The President waited for him to go on.

"This may sound a little odd," Dave began. "It's a favor for one of my people who was in the middle of the Kabir mess. He's got some friends—a Navy commander and a Marine colonel, apparently—who want to hold their wedding in the White House Rose Garden…"

He trailed off as the President started to laugh. "I don't believe it. You, too?" This was the _fourth_ time someone had asked him about these officers and their wedding. The first request had come from his Press Secretary, who happened to live next door to a woman who was dating the Navy's Judge Advocate General. The second had been from one of the Joint Chiefs. The third had come from Bobbi Latham, a rising star on the Hill and one of the last people he would ever have expected to be wasting a Presidential favor on anything even vaguely military in nature.

The President thanked Dave for his information, then hit another button on his phone. "Georgia! Get me whatever information you can dig up on these two officers who want to get married in my rose garden, will you?"

"Yes, Mr. President," came his secretary's brisk reply. "But it's a vow renewal, not an actual wedding." 

The President went back to his paperwork until Georgia—a handsome black woman in her mid-forties—appeared, bearing a couple of thick folders in her arms. She laid them on the desk in front of him. "Here you are, sir. Commander and Colonel Rabb's service records, FBI bios, media coverage and other assorted bits." 

"They're already married?" The President asked as he flipped the top file open.

Georgia nodded, smiling. "Yes, sir. They're the _Temptation Cruise_ investigators—from the TV show a couple of months ago." She gave him a sidelong glance, as if silently rebuking him for not watching enough television. Not that she had time for much TV herself, but the President knew she considered television a singularly American thing. How she drew the connection between patriotism and electronically-induced brain rot, however, he couldn't have said.

As Georgia regaled him with the story of the two JAG officers going undercover on some trashy reality television show, the President scanned their records. Decorated officers, both of them… he stopped short when he realized that the commander they were talking about was the very same one who'd so recently lured Kabir's dirty nuke away from the carrier group in an F-14. And that made these two, most likely, the "assets" JAG had had in place in Afghanistan that had helped uncover the plot in the first place. He shook his head at the enormity of the coincidence.

Truly curious now, the President went back to the beginning of the files and began to read in earnest.


	2. 1

Chapter 1

"Tell me again why we're moving?" Mac asked as she maneuvered through the warren of piled boxes filling the living room. She plopped down beside her husband on the couch with a sigh and a jingle of medals from her dress blues. Harm was similarly decked out in his whites, gold wings gleaming in the bright morning sunlight.

"Not enough space," he answered promptly, shooting her a sly look. She'd been the one to push for making the move sooner rather than later. Harm's studio apartment was wonderfully cozy, but not very practical. They needed separate offices since they did—on occasion—still end up on opposite sides in court, a bedroom for themselves (preferably one with a door since Sergei tended to drop by unannounced), and at least one extra for… well, eventualities. And since her birth control pills had recently gone into the trash, eventuality would soon become reality… they hoped.

Mac leaned over to rest her head on Harm's shoulder. Their fingers twined automatically. Harm's other hand encircled her wrist, thumb slipping beneath the edge of her uniform sleeve to stroke the tail end of the scar that ran the length of her forearm. The touch sent a cold shiver up her spine, but she didn't ask him to stop. That scar was a touchstone for him, she knew, a physical reminder of just how close he'd come to losing her. At first, Mac had wanted to hide the scar out of vanity or perhaps self-consciousness, but soon she'd realized just what a powerful talisman she wore on her skin. Often, when they argued, she would see Harm's eyes stray to the dark, ragged line on her arm, and almost immediately his demeanor would soften. Like a switch being thrown, resolving the issue between them would suddenly take precedence over winning the argument. Mac was finding it easier to adopt that mindset, too, as time went on and she began to let go of her fears.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Harm asked.

Mac stared at the sea of boxes and smiled. "I was thinking about how much I love you." 

He chuckled. "Oh, well that should be worth a nickel, at least."

Mac raised her head to grin at him. "Just a nickel?" 

He cocked his head, his expression pure innocence. "And a kiss?"

Laughing, she tilted her face up to meet him. As often happened, one kiss led to another, and another. Mac sometimes wondered if it was silly—a couple of thirty-something-year-olds making out like teenagers whenever they had a few moments to themselves. 

Not that she was complaining, mind. 

A brisk knock at the door interrupted them. Mac stood, quickly adjusting her uniform, while Harm went to answer it. The Admiral stood out in the hall, looking distinguished, if a bit uncomfortable, in his own dress uniform. 

"Good morning, commander, colonel." He gave them each a smile. "The limousine is downstairs, if you're ready."

"Good morning, Admiral," they chorused.

The three of them chatted companionably as they left the building and got into the waiting car. Proper decorum dictated that Harm and Mac sit some small distance apart, as if they were once again merely friends and co-workers, not husband and wife. It was a requirement they were growing used to. The drive passed quickly.

When they made the turn into the White House grounds, Mac glanced at Harm. "Do you remember the last time we were here?"

He flashed her a wide smile. "How could I forget? That day changed my life."

Mac barely heard him. She stared into her husband's eyes as a prescient chill scrabbled down her back. In that moment she was certain that coming back to the Rose Garden would change their lives again. Her vision twisted, changed. She and Harm were in another limousine, driving down this same path with the White House looming outside the tinted windows. Mac remained in uniform—her Class A's rather than the dress blues—but Harm was wearing a suit.

Something about the scene didn't feel right. Other than Harm not being in uniform, which seemed incongruous but not threatening. Mac looked around, trying to figure out what had set her internal alarms to ringing. It was something outside. As if in a daze, she reached for the controls to lower the windows. 

She gasped as the dark glass scrolled down. Framing the pristine lines of the White House, the sky had turned a deep, fiery red. 

"Mac? Mac, are you all right?" Harm's voice jerked her out of the vision.

She turned to him, blinking as she regained her bearings. Harm was back in his dress whites, looking worried. The Admiral, too, was leaning forward, watching her in concern.

"Colonel?"

Mac licked her lips. "I'm fine," she assured them. She reached over to squeeze Harm's hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You were gone there for a minute."

She shook her head, uncertain how to put the experience into words. "It was… a vision, I think." 

Rather than ridicule, she received grave, attentive looks from both men as she described what she'd seen.

"That sounds rather ominous, colonel," Chegwidden said once she'd finished.

"It felt ominous, sir, but somehow… right, too, at the same time."

The limousine pulled to a stop. The driver got out. 

"Well, colonel, let me know if you figure out what it means," the Admiral said as the driver opened the door for them. "I don't like the idea of you having a psychic episode centered around the White House."

"Aye aye, sir." 

They climbed out of the car, retracing the same path they'd walked all those years ago. Harm and Mac both paused instinctively in the spot where they'd met. 

The Admiral watched them appraisingly. "If I recall correctly, I told you two not to get too close."

Harm grinned at Mac. "Shows how well we listen, doesn't it."

She chuckled.

Admiral Chegwidden turned to go. "Come along, people. You don't want to keep the President waiting, commander."

"Aye, sir." They fell in behind him.

#

Harm stood locked at attention as the President stepped forward to pin the Navy Cross to his uniform. He wasn't certain why these ceremonies bothered him. Perhaps because he'd simply done his duty that day, just like every other day. The circumstances had been exceptional, not him. It seemed odd to be given a medal for an act that had taken no particular thought on his part—required no hard decision or sacrificial choice. He'd had the opportunity and means to serve, and had done what was needed.

The President finished with the medal and offered his hand. "Congratulations, commander."

Harm shook the proffered hand, meeting his commander-in-chief's gaze. "Thank you, sir." 

Still holding Harm's hand in a strong grip, the President lowered his voice to a private level. "Tell me something… what's the purpose of a vow renewal ceremony?"

Harm stared at him, blindsided by the question. "Sir?"

The President grinned. "I've heard rumors that you and your wife would like to use my rose garden for the ceremony, and I'm curious what the point of it is."

Harm hurriedly gathered his wits. The _President_ knew about that? All Harm had done was ask a few questions of some friends to see if it was even remotely feasible. 

"Uh… ideally, we would have had a full military wedding, sir," he answered once he'd recovered his voice. "But because it was part of an undercover investigation we were involved in, we couldn't. Most of our friends weren't there… we didn't even write our own vows." He shrugged lightly, wondering if he was imagining the bizarre conversation. "We want to do it right this time."

"Commendable sentiment, but why here?"

"We met here, sir."

The President raised an eyebrow. "Really? When was that?"

"About seven years ago, sir. The last time a President pinned one of these things on me."

The President smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "America needs more men like you, commander. I'll have someone from the Public Affairs Office contact you. The Rose Garden is at your disposal."

Harm blinked at him, thoroughly startled. "Thank you, sir."

The President released him and stepped back, turning to pick up the medal belonging to the next honoree.

#

The man's name was Saheed Faroul. His passport said his name was James Farokhi, a British businessman who traveled back and forth between London and Washington D.C. on a regular basis. Which, in fact, he did. Every single stamp in his passport was legitimate. He found it amusing that all the travel stamps were authentic while the passport itself was not.

Faroul cleared customs, then headed out to where he could catch a taxi. He would be in the city for a couple of days for meetings with the American company for which his own subcontracted. He would also stop at a payphone to make one innocuous call. Then he would head back to London, his mission complete.


	3. 2

Chapter 2

Tad Southerland, call sign Duke, was a major attached to the 1st Fighter Wing out of Langley Air Force Base. His squadron, the 94th Fighter Squadron, was the second oldest in the United States. He was a tall man, with a craggy, weathered face reminiscent of John Wayne—hence the nickname. 

When the phone at his desk in the squadron hall rang, he thought nothing of it.

"Major Southerland."

"Hello, Major. This is Bob Franks with the Children's Volunteer Society. We contacted you earlier about possibly volunteering for our charity soccer tournament?"

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. Tad's stomach clenched. He'd been waiting for this day for a long time and had started to think it might never come. 

"Yes—yes, I remember. It's finally here, is it?"

The voice on the other end of the line sounded every bit the professional solicitor. "It is. My records indicate you thought you might be able to bring some friends with you to volunteer as well? This event will mean so much to the underprivileged children who are going to be competing in the tournament."

To anyone else, the conversation would sound totally innocuous. Only Tad and the unknown man on the other end knew what they were really talking about. Actually, only the caller knew. Tad didn't know for certain what the "soccer tournament" would be, but he had pledged his services to the people the caller represented. He believed in their cause, and knew a few other F-15 pilots who felt the same way.

"Yes, a few." Now, finally, it was time to start gathering his "friends". A new day was dawning.

The man on the other end sounded truly pleased. "That's wonderful. Do you know how many? I need to be able to give the organizers an estimate of how many volunteers they should be expecting."

Tad thought for a moment. He'd been through this already in his mind, but now he had to commit. "Three—maybe four."

"I'll write it down. And thank you again for being willing to donate your time to such a worthy cause."

Tad smiled humorlessly. He would most likely be donating his life, but such was the price paid by patriots to protect what they held most dear.

#

"Hey, guess what?" 

Harm leaned back in his chair, phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear, smiling at his wife's chipper voice on the other end of the line. His office at the Pentagon was a tiny, windowless cube in the outer ring, making him grateful he only spent one day a week there. Officially he was assigned to the Pentagon as a legal attaché to AIRLANT—it was time to punch his ticket at the Pentagon anyway—but he loaned out to JAG HQ whenever there wasn't enough work to keep him busy, which thankfully was most of the time.

"What?" 

"John and Delia Washington are in town. I just talked to Delia. They're here for the week for some kind of conference and were hoping to get together for dinner."

"Really? That's great." The two couples had become pretty good friends during the weeks they'd spent aboard the _Radiant Heart_. "Do you think we can go out somewhere without the press hounding us?"

Her chuckle held a strained note. "I doubt it, but since our house is still full of boxes, I think we're going to have to take the chance." They'd only moved the weekend before, and as much as the clutter of boxes tore at Harm's precisely organized soul, they just hadn't had time yet to unpack.

Harm's phone beeped sedately, indicating a call on another line. 

"Can you hold on, Mac? I've got another call."

"Sure."

He punched the button to change lines. "Commander Rabb."

"Good morning, Commander." Admiral Chegwidden's gruff, familiar voice filled his ear.

"Good morning, Admiral," Harm responded automatically, though he suspected it was anything but. The Admiral didn't make social calls. "I was just talking with Mac on the other line."

"That's convenient, Commander. Do you have anything pressing going on over there right now?"

Curious, Harm sat up straighter in his chair. "No, sir."

"Good. Then tell the colonel I want to see both of you in my office ASAP."

"Aye, sir."

The Admiral hung up, and Harm switched back to his wife to relay the message.

Mac's reaction was similar to her husband's. "Both of us, huh? I wonder what's up?"

Harm chuckled as he pulled out his briefcase and started packing things into it. "I don't know, but I'll bet you your underwear that Webb's involved somehow."

She laughed. "I know better than to take that bet."

#

When they walked into the Admiral's office nearly an hour later, they did indeed find Clayton Webb lurking in the corner, near the bookshelves.

"Harm, Mac." He nodded to each in turn.

"You don't look very happy, Clay," Mac pointed out.

"Don't knock it, Colonel. You're about to join the club." 

Harm and Mac traded glances. Webb almost always brought bad news. "So what kind of trouble are you getting us into this time?" Harm asked. 

Clay spread his hands. "Not me." His focus narrowed, until Harm began to feel uncomfortable beneath the other man's scrutiny. "What in the world did you and the President talk about during that awards ceremony, anyway?"

Harm gave him an odd look. "The Rose Garden. Why?"

"Because these orders come from the Oval Office." He cocked his head. "You must have made quite the impression."

Mac flashed him a grin. "He usually does."

Harm was still processing Webb's statement and didn't react to the friendly tease. "What does the President want with us?"

"A repeat of your adventure in Afghanistan, I expect."

"Don't tell me the Russians have discovered more missing plutonium." That was from the Admiral, who didn't look too pleased at the prospect of losing his lead attorneys' services again.

"Not the Russians, this time." Clay stepped closer to the desk and lowered his voice a notch. "Pakistan."

At the round of quietly alarmed looks, Webb went on, "We know Pakistan has been and is continuing to develop nuclear weapons. In May of 1998, Pakistan claimed to have conducted five successful underground nuclear tests, two of which could be independently verified."

"That was in response to India's nuclear tests, if I remember right," Harm put in.

Webb nodded. "According to a report from Los Alamos National Laboratory, small amounts of weapons grade plutonium was released into the atmosphere during those tests. The report perked up ears in the intelligence community, since nobody knew Pakistan had _any_ weapons grade plutonium at the time."

"Implying that we now know they do." Mac crossed her arms, watching Webb with an intent expression.

He nodded. "Yes, we do. The problem is, we don't know how much. We never have been able to get reliable information on that score. We believe they have as many as ten short and medium range ballistic missiles tipped with nuclear warheads. They also have F-16s, which can carry nuclear gravity bombs, though it's less likely they have any of those."

"Is there a point to all this, Mr. Webb?" The Admiral pinned him with an expectant stare.

Clay blew out his breath in a small sigh. "Yes, Admiral. Approximately twenty-four hours ago, a truck we _think_ may have been carrying an unknown amount of weapons grade plutonium from the plant at Rawalpindi crossed the border from Pakistan into Afghanistan."

Dead silence answered him as the three officers struggled to digest the information. Clay went on.

"The Pakistani government, of course, denies everything, but we know there are elements in both the government and military that have ties to various radical groups."

"Including Al Queda," Mac said. It wasn't a question. 

Clay nodded. "Including Al Queda." 

"What are we supposed to do about it?" Harm finally asked. He was used to be sent off on wild assignments, but why anyone would want two JAGs at the point for what ought to be a CIA operation was beyond him.

"The President and some of his advisors are under the impression that you two have a natural affinity for trouble—catalysts if you will. You walk into a situation and something _will_ happen."

Harm gave his friend a disbelieving look. "Did anyone tell him that's because we wander around kicking over rocks until we either find the truth or someone starts shooting at us?"

"I don't think he cares about methods at this point. We need to know what was on that truck and where it went. You two have had success tracking down nuclear material in Afghanistan before—something not too many people can say—so you go."

Harm and Mac simply looked at each other. They were military officers. If they were told to go, they would go.

"Look at the bright side," Mac told her husband after a moment, her eyes taking on a mischievous shine. "Maybe we'll get lost again."

Harm chuckled, feeling his ears warm. "Yeah, air strikes are such romantic mood-setters." The pure adrenaline from their near miss had made the experience more frantic than romantic, but it had definitely been a night to remember.

The Admiral looked between them with a stern stare marred by the smile twitching at his lips. "As your commanding officer, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Didn't hear what, sir?" Mac asked deadpan.

Clay gave them both a dirty look. "Can we get back to business?" 

Swallowing smiles, they did so. Webb was entirely too much fun to tease.

"There's a transport standing by at Andrews for us. It leaves at 1600. We'll go from there to the _Patrick Henry_ in the Arabian Sea, and then be inserted in country. By now I'm sure you two know the drill."

"'We'?" Harm asked.

Clay rolled his eyes. "Yes, 'we'. This is my op. My team is already on their way to the _Henry_ as we speak. I had to stay back to pick up you two."

Mac sighed, her gaze flicking to her husband's, then away. "Well, so much for having dinner with John and Delia."


	4. 3

Chapter 3

Mac and Harm sat in the officers' wardroom with Clay and his team, nursing cups of bitter Navy coffee—which might barely have passed for Marine coffee, she thought with a grin—and waiting for the captain of the _Patrick Henry_ to arrive. She and Harm endured the looks they received from the CIA team without visible reaction. The two organizations instinctively distrusted each other's philosophies and methods. All of them were quite content to play on the same team so long as they didn't have to do so together.

Captain Ingles arrived a few minutes later. Mac and her husband came to their feet, braced at attention—to the great amusement of the CIA people watching them. 

Captain Ingles looked the room over, his scowl lightening only slightly when it reached the two officers. "At ease," he growled at them. They retook their seats. The Captain turned his focus to Harm.

"Commander, it's always a pleasure to have you aboard my boat."

Harm met the Captain's eyes and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Ingles's gaze flicked to Mac. He gave her a barely perceptible nod. "Colonel."

Mac returned it. "Sir." She wasn't as welcome as Harm, but was pretty well-regarded for an outsider. 

Ingles turned to Clayton Webb. "Let's get this show on the road, Mr. Webb. My time is valuable."

Webb straightened from where he'd been leaning a shoulder against the wall. "Unfortunately, there's not much to tell at this point. Almost forty-eight hours ago, a truck we think was carrying weapons grade plutonium crossed the border into Afghanistan around Jalalabad."

"Why didn't the truck get stopped at the border?" the captain wanted to know.

Webb shrugged. "Our best guess is that it was being transported along with payment for an opium shipment. The Poppyland Express is still going strong, despite interdiction efforts."

"That's going to make it harder than usual to get any information," Harm put in with a frown. "The local warlords don't like us asking questions about their drug trafficking."

"They don't have to like it," was Webb's response. Harm raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything further.

Webb motioned to one of his men, who spread a large topographical map of Afghanistan out on the table. Mac helped him straighten it, then plunked her coffee mug down on the nearest corner to help hold it flat. Captain Ingles drifted closer.

Webb pointed out Rawalpindi, near Islamabad, where the plutonium was believed to have originated. His finger traced the main road that ran toward the border to the west. "Here's where we think the truck crossed. As soon as the information came in, forces in the area set up a screen along the major roads, with a couple of helicopters tasked to keep an eye on the countryside. Here." He drew long arc to the west of Jalalabad. "We can't be sure, of course, but we think the truck is still in this area." He indicated the area inside the arc. "The biggest drug king in the region is Nabeel Mojadeddi. He's a pretty major player, and he's rumored to have family ties to Bin Laden."

"You could say that about half the warlords over there, Clay," Mac pointed out. "Is there any substantive evidence pointing to Mojadeddi?"

Clay gave her one of his mildly annoyed looks. "No. He's simply our top pick. But, that's where you two come in."

Mac and Harm shared a look, then turned in unison to Webb.

He flashed a tight smile. "With Captain Ingles's permission, I'd like to arrange for one of his people to get caught smuggling heroin onto the ship. We know Mojadeddi hasn't gotten into the heroin business, but some of his chief rivals have. So if the JAG investigators were to go to him to ask some questions about who among his cronies _might_ be involved..."

Harm grinned. "He gets to make life difficult for his competitors and we get a look around the place. Not bad, Clay."

"I'm so glad you approve." The sarcasm wasn't lost on Harm, who chuckled.

A thought occurred to Mac. "This guy probably has access to television and the internet. What if he recognizes us?"

Clay shrugged. "What if he does? You _are_ JAG investigators, aren't you?"

She sat back with a frown. "True. I guess it just means I can't assume my ability to speak Farsi won't be known."

"So what should we be looking for, specifically?" Harm fingered the edge of the map as he talked. "Last time the plutonium was unshielded, so we had a pretty clear trail of bodies to follow. It sounds like that might not be the case this time."

Clay gestured to one of his compatriots. "This is Jon Burke, our nuclear materials specialist."

Burke was a shortish man with curly brown hair and a goatee. He reminded Mac of Bud, oddly enough. He had the same intelligent, self-effacing geek aura about him.

Burke stood. "We're looking for a single shipping container, most likely. It's a gray metal box about the size of a small television, and weighs about two hundred pounds. Most of that is shielding. The plutonium for a single bomb only weighs two to three pounds."

Clay stepped forward. "To our best knowledge, that represents somewhere between one half and one seventh of Pakistan's entire production of weapons grade plutonium to date."

That was the most alarming thing Mac had heard so far. This was no fly-by-night operation. "Do we know anything about the money trail?"

Clay's expression told her she'd hit on something important. "So far there isn't one. Officially, Pakistan denies everything. Unofficially, the story is that the plutonium was stolen and they don't want to admit it." His expression grew even grimmer. "But, one does not just _steal _half of a country's most precious fabricated commodity. So either they sold it and have done a truly remarkable job of covering it up... or they gave it away."

"Countries don't give away plutonium as birthday presents, Mr. Webb." Captain Ingles crossed his arms.

"No, Captain, they don't. And there are only a few causes worthy enough in their eyes to warrant that kind of donation."

Harm snorted. "India and us."

"Yep. And though India is a heck of a lot closer, the U.S. is the more likely target if Al Queda is involved."

Mac looked from Clay to Captain Ingles. "When do we leave?"

Clay answered, "As soon as the good captain here gives us a stooge to pin the smuggling rap on. Someone who regularly goes with the resupply crew."

"That sounds like my cue." Ingles turned to leave. Mac and Harm rose to their feet as he did so and the captain nodded to each as he passed. "Commander, Colonel."

When he was gone, Harm turned to Mac. "We'd better go draw our gear."

She nodded, then turned to Clay. "Where are you going to be during all of this, Webb?"

He smirked. "Oh, I'll be around."

#

Four hours later, they touched down at Bagram Air Base, north of Kabul, where they immediately transferred to HumVee's for the trip to Site Echo, one of the staging areas for Task Force SWORD. SWORD was a coalition force that worked primarily along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, seeking to prevent Taliban and Al Queda forces from travelling between the countries.

Harm and Mac ended up near the front of the convoy of vehicles, since they were there in an official capacity. The Marine sergeant who had been tasked to drive them treated both officers like particularly bright children—quite valuable in their own way but painfully out of place in a war zone. It annoyed Harm to no end that because he was a reserved line officer people automatically assumed he was a non-combatant and incapable of holding his own under fire. He was pretty sure the sergeant had bitten his tongue to keep from asking the two JAGs if they knew how to use the M-16s they were carrying. No doubt it was even worse for Mac, he thought. She had the added handicap of being female. 

The drive passed mainly in silence. Harm and Mac talked a bit about the "case" of heroin smuggling that had brought them in country, more to get into character than anything else. Eventually, they reached their destination.

Echo reminded Harm of a prison, ringed with heavy cement walls and long curls of concertina wire. Guard towers stood at each corner, topped with search lights and heavy machine guns. The barren, dusty Afghan hills surrounding the compound only made the place seem bleaker. As they drove up, Harm couldn't help but lean over to his wife.

"And you say I never take you anywhere."

She chuckled. "_Romantic_, Harm. You never take me anyplace _romantic_."

He grinned back at her. They had a running joke about lack of romance in the trips they'd taken since getting married—particularly since all of them to date had been work-related rather than personal.

"You've got to admit it's exotic, though."

"Afghanistan was exotic the last time we were here. Now it's just the same old same old."

He rolled his eyes. "Geez. Some people are _so_ hard to please."

She laughed as they drove through the open gate into Site Echo. It was a little more cheerful on the inside, but only because there was plenty of activity. Harm spotted two buildings that might have been termed permanent structures—one looked like a headquarters building, the other a medical center of some sort. Everything else was a sea of tents. The far end of the compound was clear, save for the hulking forms of three helicopters sitting next to the makeshift helipad. 

The caravan was met by a Marine lieutenant Sheffield, a severe young man who looked them over in much the way the sergeant had, though he kept the expression off his face. 

"Your Marine buddies don't seem very friendly," Harm commented to Mac as they and Webb followed the lieutenant toward the headquarters building.

She gave him a sidelong look. "They're just wondering how a Squid can survive this far from the ocean."

Harm chuckled. "You're in a feisty mood today."

She flashed him a wide grin. On her far side, Clay shook his head at their antics.

They were led to the office of a Colonel Patrick Flynn. The Colonel was a huge man. He and Harm stood eye-to-eye, but Flynn was both broader through the shoulders and much more heavily muscled. His close-cropped hair was a brilliant flame orange, tinged with gray, and his eyes were a nearly colorless blue. His nose had been broken at least twice, turning it into a crooked, misshapen blob in the center of his face. He watched the officers approach with a scowl.

Harm rarely met anyone he found physically intimidating, but Colonel Flynn could definitely be put on that list. He did his best not to let it show as he and Mac came to attention in front of the Colonel's desk. Webb drifted in after them, coming to a stop a few steps to their rear, as if they could shield him from the Colonel's keen gaze.

"You must be Commander Rabb and Colonel Rabb." Flynn's voice was deep—not surprising given how much space it had to echo around in. 

"Yes, sir," Harm answered for both of them. He met Flynn's gaze, waiting for the inevitable.

The colonel didn't disappoint him. "I don't suppose the similarity of names is just a coincidence?" The colorless eyes flicked from one to the other, sharing out the disapproval evenly.

Harm bit back a sigh. "We're married, sir."

The mostly gray eyebrows dropped another fraction. "Did the military change its policy while I wasn't looking, Commander?"

"No, sir. But the President said 'go', so here we are. Sir." Harm held the other man's gaze, waiting for that one to sink in. 

Colonel Flynn didn't betray any surprise, which made Harm think he already knew where the two officers' orders had come from. He just didn't like it and was taking it out on them since he couldn't very well tell the Commander-In-Chief what he thought.

Flynn pinned them both with a righteous glower. "If I see even _one_ little infraction of the rules, Commander, Colonel, I'll have you both up on charges. This is a war zone. You are not married _here_. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," they barked in unison.

He glared at them a moment longer. "Very well. At ease."

They moved from attention to parade rest as the colonel sank his massive frame into his chair. Harm was surprised the metal frame didn't groan in protest. Flynn laced his fingers across his flat stomach, a light of humor kindling in his eyes.

"You can come out now, Mr. Webb. I don't eat civilians."

Clearing his throat self-consciously, Clay stepped up beside Harm. "I appreciate that, Colonel."

Flynn looked him over for a moment. His gaze flicked back to Harm. "Now, suppose you tell me why I have two JAGs from Washington and a truckload of spooks coming over to play in my sandbox."

In a quiet voice, Clay outlined the real reason for their visit to Afghanistan. They had permission to tell the colonel, though no one else at Site Echo. Flynn didn't react visibly to the information, but Harm could see the impact in his eyes. The disapproving bluster disappeared, replaced by the icy calm of a man who knew when real trouble was brewing.

"Well, that explains the CIA's presence," Flynn said once Clay had finished. "But it still doesn't tell me why you two are here." He thrust his chin in Webb's direction. "He doesn't need real JAGs for this little scheme."

"Sir, we tracked down that last missing plutonium that came through Afghanistan," Mac answered. "The President thinks we can do it again."

Flynn cocked his head, studying her. Harm wondered what he saw. A beautiful woman, slender and frail-looking? Or a Marine, regardless of size or sex? 

"Have you ever been shot at, Colonel?" the colonel asked in a dangerously mild voice.

Mac nodded, equally solemn. "Yes, sir."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose fractionally, but he didn't challenge her statement. "Ever killed a man?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Harm saw Mac stiffen. He bit the inside of his lip. He knew the memories were bad, for her.

"Yes, sir," Mac said. 

Flynn's attention shifted to Harm. "And you, Commander? The Navy doesn't usually get involved in the down-and-dirty fighting. Have you seen any action?"

At his shoulder, Clay snorted in amusement. Harm ignored him. 

"A bit, sir."

Flynn turned a sharp stare on Webb, then returned his attention to Harm.

"So if I turn you two loose without bodyguards, is it likely you'll make it back here with your skins intact?"

Harm kept his voice calm with an effort. Flynn was prodding him. "Yes, sir. We're pretty good at taking care of ourselves." 

The colonel gave him a hard look, but once again chose not to challenge the statement. "All right. I am going to send one of my men with you as a guide. He can help you avoid the unfriendly natives, and the minefields."

Harm saw Webb scowl at that, but personally he thought it was a good idea. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate the help."

"Thank me when you get back." Flynn leaned a little further back in his chair, studying them intently. 

"Is there anything you can tell us about Nabeel Mojaddedi, Colonel?" Mac asked after a moment.

Flynn gave her an appraising look. "A little. Mojaddedi is a man living for revenge. He was one of the mujahidin who fought the Soviets back in the eighties. Now he sells the Russians drugs." He shrugged. "If that ever falls through, I'm sure he'll come up with some other way to hurt them."

"How does he feel about Americans?" Harm asked.

Flynn frowned. "We leave him alone, he leaves us alone. I wouldn't call him friendly, but he's not looking for trouble. He knows we'd bloody his nose pretty badly if it ever came down to it." He looked back and forth between the two officers. "Is there anything else?"

Harm shook his head. "I don't think so, sir. Thank you."

Flynn nodded and waved them away. The officers came to attention, then left, with Webb on their heels.


	5. 4

Chapter 4

Hamzah Anwar stood in the shade of the trees lining his uncle's private garden, staring at the sky. The Americans were swarming like bees, and he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew why.

"Something has upset them," Hamzah's uncle commented as he crossed the distance between them. Nabeel Mojaddedi was a distinguished-looking man. His gray hair and beard gave him an automatic mantle of authority, which he wore with solemn dignity. His robes were striped in bright colors, a reflection of his prosperity. He was a man many listened to, and one Hamzah knew he had to treat carefully. His uncle didn't know of Hamzah's real work, though the younger man didn't think he'd care. 

Another American helicopter flew across the wedge of sky visible from their location. Hamzah grimaced as it made a long, sweeping curve around them. It was a Huey—the quintessential American war helicopter—but also one commonly used for reconnaissance. They were looking for something. His eyes unwillingly went upward, staring at the washed out sky as if he could pierce that pale surface and look out into the darkness beyond. The helicopters were redundant. Up there were the real watchers. If the Americans were looking here, their satellite eyes would be tasked to watch them as well. And that meant Hamzah had a problem.

"Yes, something," he answered his uncle. "But who knows what will upset them."

Mojaddedi glanced at him, his gaze quietly suspicious. He didn't ask, however. Instead, he switched topics. "I'm glad you brought Ravi with you, though it is dangerous to bring a child on such a journey."

Hamzah winced a bit at the reproof in his uncle's voice. He was right. It was a risk to bring his son on his regular trips across the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, a risk that had been multiplied infinitely on this last journey. If the Americans suspected anything, they might very well respond with force, which could put Ravi at risk. He needed to move his package and quickly, for Ravi's sake. How he would do so with so many eyes on them, he didn't know.

He couldn't ask for help from others in the loose organization the Americans labeled "Al Queda". Those who could be trusted had their own work to do, which could not be interrupted. Nor could they afford to draw any connections for the CIA to follow. That organization, when focused, was most of the most dangerous entities in the world. If Hamzah failed in his task, it would be a huge blow to the cause, but that failure would not compromise the rest. The war would go on.

Hamzah's thoughts began to turn more quickly. Perhaps he could draw on his uncle's people for the aid he needed. He wasn't sure yet how to move his package without the Americans seeing, but at least now he felt like he had possibilities to work with. 

#

"So, who wants to wear the camera?" One of Webb's technical weenies stood near the center of the small room, holding up a small tangle of wires and electronics. He, Webb and several other CIA operatives were present. They had turned the space into a kind of staging area. Pieces of equipment lay strewn across two tables, in various states of assembly while the team members checked everything out.

Harm and Mac looked at each other, then at Webb. "We're going high tech, I take it." Harm met Clay's gaze.

Clay shrugged. "This is a surveillance mission. You never know when the camera will catch something important."

Harm frowned. "Unless one of us gets caught wearing it."

"That's very unlikely." The weenie—Josh Porter, by name—gave Harm one of those disgusted looks reserved for the technologically-illiterate. Porter was tall and lanky, with a fair sprinkling of pimples on his pale-skinned face. He looked like he hadn't quite escaped adolescence yet, though he was undoubtedly in his early twenties. His sandy brown hair fell loose to his shoulders, a style that instinctively made Harm itch. It wasn't that he had a problem with men wearing long hair, but seeing a man tucking his hair behind his ear with the same gesture a woman would use just seemed _wrong_ somehow.

"This video camera is pretty discrete." Porter was oblivious to Harm's thoughts as he showed them a black box about the size of a pager with several wires dangling from it. "The camera itself is a buttonhole device—very easy to hide. The box is the recording equipment. You wear it on your belt just like you would a pager and no one will notice."

Mac cocked her head to look up at Harm. "Why is everyone assuming you're going to wear it?"

He shrugged, not seeing much reason for argument. "Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"Actually, there is." She nodded, a not entirely pleasant smile on her face. "This is a male-dominated society. Everyone we meet at Mojaddedi's compound is going to assume you're in charge, and will probably dismiss me as irrelevant. So guess who they're going to spend their time staring at?"

Harm chuckled. "Oh, I don't know about that, Colonel. It's been my experience that men spend a good deal more time staring at you than at me." He gave her a mock leer. "And with good reason."

She rolled her eyes, but a light flush colored her cheeks. "Yellow light, Commander."

Harm ignored the traffic light, knowing full well she didn't mean it. "Actually, that might add to your argument," he went on. "They'll be so busy staring at your… female attributes, they won't even think of looking for wires."

She raised both eyebrows. "My female attributes?"

Harm leaned down to stare directly into her eyes. "Do you want me to go into specifics?"

She grinned, but didn't answer.

Webb gave Mac an appraising stare. "You know, he's got a point," he said, his tone refusing to acknowledge the sexual currents running between husband and wife.

Mac chuckled. "Sounds like I've been nominated." She turned to Porter. "What do I do?"

Clay flashed her a grin that would have made the Cheshire Cat proud. "Strip, Colonel."

Her flush darkened a few shades, but she returned the smile, one eyebrow rising archly. "How far would you like me to go, Clay?"

Harm bit back a laugh. He liked this confident, sassy Marine who'd been showing up in Mac's body more and more often lately. Marriage had been good for her, he thought, and felt a touch of conceit. _He_ had been good for her.

Clay cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing at Harm before returning his attention to Mac. "You do have one of those ugly brown t-shirts on under there somewhere, don't you?" He eyed her bulky BDUs.

Mac nodded.

"That should be far enough."

Mac turned an amused look on her husband. "You're awfully quiet, Harm. I thought you'd at least protest the idea of me taking my clothes off."

If he were honest with himself, Harm would have to admit that, on some level, he hated the idea. But Mac's playful mood was infectious. 

"I like watching you take your clothes off," he answered innocently.

She burst out laughing. Clay smirked at them. Porter looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Still chuckling, Mac unbuttoned her BDU shirt, revealing a matte black Kevlar vest beneath. She slipped the shirt off and handed it to Harm. The Kevlar followed, leaving her in a standard issue t-shirt and BDU pants. The transformation was startling. The BDUs and body armor did a fair job of hiding her figure, but now there was no mistaking the luscious curve of her breasts beneath the bland shirt and the gentle flare of her hips where said shirt disappeared into her pants. She set her fists on her hips and looked at Porter.

"Now what?"

Porter cautiously approached. "Hold your arms out," he instructed. Mac did so, her gaze going over his shoulder to meet Harm's. 

Harm tried to hide his discomfort as the agent clipped the recording device to Mac's belt, then untucked her shirt to feed the wires up through her bra, clipping them in place there, and up to her throat where they emerged from the neck of her t-shirt like the antennae of some large insect. He was aware of Clay watching him with a small, amused smile, though whether that was out of true humor or just to avoid staring at Mac, he couldn't say. 

When Porter had finished, Mac put the Kevlar vest back on, then her BDU shirt. The agent helped her situate the camera, then left her to finish buttoning up while he went and turned on a small bank of monitors sitting on a table against the wall. When they came on, Harm saw himself on one of the screens. He waved at Mac and saw the image do the same.

"Looks good," Clay said.

Harm gave his wife a critical examination, looking for any telltale signs that would give away the camera's presence and found none.

"Now, this broadcast frequency isn't secure—" Clay waved at the monitor, where the image swung toward him as Mac turned. "So you shouldn't use it. You have almost four hours worth of recording time, more than enough for an interview."

While he spoke, Mac looked down at the fake pager on her hip, brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the controls.

"Here." Clay stepped close, taking the little box in both hands without detaching it from her belt, which would have dislodged the camera. He pressed several buttons and the image on the monitor disappeared. Then he showed Mac how to start and stop the recording. Her head nearly touching his, Mac nodded her understanding. She looked up for a moment, smiling at Webb.

Clay stiffened, stepping immediately away. He sent a single glance toward Harm, his expression saying _You lucky dog_ so clearly that Harm chuckled. Strangely enough, though he knew Clay's feelings for Mac ran deep, he didn't feel any kind of rivalry for the other man. He knew it was one line Clay would never cross, not even in his heart.


	6. 5

Chapter 5

The Lance Corporal assigned to be their driver and interpreter was named Ramos. His features were Hispanic, and his accent distinctly East L.A. He didn't say much as they made the hour-long drive to Mojaddedi's compound, which suited Mac fine. It was nice just to sit in the back of the HumVee with Harm, listening to the hollow sound of the wind and feeling his knuckles brush against hers every so often with the jouncing of their vehicle. Sometimes she wondered if they were ever going to get a chance to slow down. Their four-month anniversary had come and gone while they were onboard a C-130 headed across the Atlantic on this latest assignment. Their three-month anniversary had been spent in Afghanistan as well, and their two-month anniversary had been spent aboard the _Seahawk_ during the Tribunal. 

The HumVee slowed as they approached a walled compound of dust-colored adobe. Mac could see the tops of several roofs inside the walls. A tall iron gate blocked the single entrance, with two men carrying automatic rifles stationed outside. Ramos pulled to a sedate stop about ten feet from the gate. The guards watched them warily, though they didn't raise their weapons.

One of the men approached and asked Ramos something in an Afghani dialect. Pashto, Mac thought. Like Farsi, Pashto was a common language in Afghanistan, but, unfortunately, one she didn't speak. 

Lance Corporal Ramos answered in the same language. Mac heard her husband's name mentioned, but Ramos wisely left her own out. She had the feeling he was a pretty smart kid.

The guard raised a radio to his mouth and exchanged several rapid-fire sentences with the person on the other end. Then he spoke to Ramos and waved them forward. The gate swung open with a creak of protesting metal.

"Mojaddedi always receives American visitors," Ramos told them over his shoulder as he pulled up in front of the nicest building Mac had yet seen in Afghanistan. The house was a sprawling rambler in rococo style. Small, lovingly tended gardens created a tropical atmosphere that contrasted starkly with the barren desert outside the compound walls. Exotic spices flavored the air, and in the distance Mac could hear a child's laughter.

"This is lovely," Mac observed, surprised.

Ramos turned to look at her. "Yes, ma'am. Mojaddedi's the kind of drug dealer that makes you wish he'd inherited the money instead so you could feel good about liking him." He shrugged. "He funds a small school in the village down in the valley, and pays to keep a doctor there. The people around here love him."

"Even the ones working in his opium fields?" Harm asked.

Ramos shrugged. "Yes, sir. It's work and he pays them a fair wage."

Mac and Harm exchanges glances. Mojaddedi sounded like an interesting man. They climbed out of the vehicle and followed Ramos to the door. A man met them there—obviously another guard. He eyed them warily, taking in Mac's sex with a flicker of surprise that darkened to disapproval when his gaze took note of the sidearm at her hip. Oddly enough, however, he didn't ask them to surrender their weapons before entering, which made Mac wonder why Mojaddedi was so confident of his personal safety. He was turning out to be an interesting man, indeed.

Mac and Harm followed the guard into the interior of the house with Ramos a few steps behind them. Mac turned this way and that as she walked, admiring the house and making sure the camera captured as much as possible. She felt nervous, but not especially so. 

Nabeel Mojaddedi waited for them in a small courtyard off the back of the house. Small trees and bushes framed the area, providing welcome shade. A fountain splashed nearby. A little boy of perhaps three or four years sat on the edge of the fountain, bare feet stuck beneath the water. He kicked, sending water flying, and giggled as the cool drops splattered him. Mojaddedi smiled at his antics, then came forward, hands outstretched in greeting. He was a tall, gaunt man, dressed in bright colored robes. His hair and beard were entirely gray with age, but his dark eyes held the fire of a younger man in them. A jagged scar ran down his cheek, continuing across his neck to disappear into the top of his robe. 

"Welcome, friends," he said in heavily accented English, then continued in a stream of Pashto. When he'd finished, Ramos translated.

"He says he's honored by your visit, Commander, and wants to know what he can do to help the American military."

Mac watched her husband with interest. Harm was at least as well trained in diplomacy as she was, and he could be downright genteel when he wanted to. As she watched, he nodded respectfully to Mojaddedi.

"We're grateful for your hospitality," he told Mojaddedi directly, waiting as Ramos translated the words. "We are lawyers from the Judge Advocate General Corps. We're investigating a crime committed by a young man aboard one of our ships and were hoping you might be able to help us."

Curiosity flickered across Mojaddedi's face as he listened to Ramos. He glanced from Harm to Mac and back again. 

"Of course, I will do whatever I can to help." While Ramos spoke, Mojaddedi's gaze came to rest on Mac. He studied her with interest, then spoke directly to her.

"You are the first woman soldier I have met," Ramos translated. Mojaddedi didn't seem disapproving, only curious.

Mac met his gaze squarely. "Then I hope I'll leave you with a favorable impression."

The gray eyebrows rose a fraction. "You are willing to fight and die for your country?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Mojaddedi cocked his head, studying her. "I believe you," he finally said. He shook his head. "It is a strange thing." He returned his attention to Harm, all traces of introspection vanishing. "Now, tell me what I can do for you."

#

Hamzah listened to the military officers talking with his uncle from the interior of the house. Some of his tension drained away as he realized they weren't looking for his package at all, but rather for heroin. He almost felt sorry for them. They were so close to the greatest threat their country had ever faced, and they had no idea it even existed. In some ways they were pathetic, but he felt very little disgust for them. Well, they were only a small extension of the Great Satan, mere toenails on the dragon that threatened them all. They weren't worth much emotion.

He turned and made his way to the front of the house where the Americans' vehicle sat. He walked around the squat truck, peering curiously at the instruments and looking into the rear cargo area to see what might be there. The HumVee was disappointingly empty. Hamzah would have enjoyed stealing something out from under their noses. It was petty, he knew, but he still would have enjoyed imagining their faces once they arrived back at their base and discovered the loss.

Hamzah froze as an idea bloomed in his mind. It was outrageous—both in risk and daring—but it just might be audacious enough to work. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Imagine the Americans' expressions when they figured it out! 

He began to chuckle. Perhaps he could give the dragon a hangnail.

Hamzah turned. "Sharad, I need your help for a moment," he told the man standing guard by the doorway. 

Sharad obediently shouldered his rifle and came over to where Hamzah stood. "What is it?"

"My uncle is sending a gift with the Americans, for the base commander. It's a heavy box, though, and I need your help to put it in their vehicle."

Sharad nodded and followed him into the house. Hamzah lead the other man to Mojaddedi's safe-room, and unlocked the heavy padlock on the door with a key secured around his neck. The door opened on a windowless cubby filled with shelves. Money in several currencies, gold, bricks of opium and other treasures sat on the shelves in haphazard stacks. Sharad had carried things to and from the room before, so he only glanced around before returning his attention to Hamzah.

Hamzah gestured to the metal box that sat on the floor in one corner. Radiation symbols were emblazoned on each side, but he didn't think the illiterate Sharad would recognize them. Together, the two men hoisted the unnaturally heavy box and carried it outside. Grunting with the effort, Sharad helped him lower the box into the back of the HumVee. Hamzah wrestled it up against the side of the vehicle where a protruding lip of metal would shield it from casual notice.

That done, he thanked Sharad and watched him return to his post at the door. Then he went back inside to check on the Americans. They were still in the garden with his uncle. He approached quietly, standing unnoticed at the edge of the courtyard until Ravi turned his direction.

"Daddy!" Ravi leapt off the edge of the fountain, arms outstretched. Hamzah's initial smile disappeared as his son's foot caught on the edge, pitching him forward.

Like a shot, the tall American officer crossed the short distance in two strides, snagging the little boy midair and swinging him around to plant his little feet firmly on the ground. Totally unaware of his near catastrophe, Ravi shrugged off the man's grip and ran across the paved courtyard to throw himself into his father's arms.

Hamzah lifted him into his arms for a hug and a kiss. Ravi talked about the funny-looking American soldiers as Hamzah carried him toward his uncle. He was especially taken with their splotchy camouflage uniforms.

Hamzah discretely sized up the Americans as he approached, but particularly the tall man who was obviously their leader. The man returned Hamzah's gaze with equal interest.

"Thank you for catching him," Hamzah said when he arrived, indicating the child in his arms. "In his eagerness, my son sometimes forgets to be careful where he puts his feet."

The American gave him a friendly smile. "I think all boys are that way, to some degree or another. I certainly was."

Hamzah couldn't help but return the smile, surprised by how engaging he found this American officer. "And I," he admitted. His gaze strayed to the second officer—the woman. He cursed softly. She was very beautiful. He instinctively backed up a step and averted his eyes. It was utterly inappropriate to be staring into her face and he was ashamed that he'd given in to the temptation. At least the bulky uniform hid her body well enough that he was willing to consider it an Americanized abaya, and the tall officer could be considered a reasonable substitute for a male relative. That way he didn't have to feel as though he was sinning by being in the same room with her. He didn't understand his uncle's indifference toward the Americans' ways.

Hamzah turned to Mojaddedi, careful to keep his gaze from straying toward the woman again. "Will you keep Ravi for a short while, uncle? I need to run an errand."

Mojaddedi nodded and held out his arms for the boy. "Of course. We'll have a grand time while Daddy's gone, won't we, little one?" He smiled at Ravi.

Hamzah wished he could do more than give his son a casual hug before surrendering him, but anything else would make his uncle suspicious. Depending on how the next few hours went, he might not see Ravi again for a long time. He said goodbye to his uncle, nodded to the American officer, then left to get his horse from the stables. He had a hard ride ahead of him.


	7. 6

Chapter 6

"Who's that?" Clayton Webb raised a hand to point toward the tiny figure of a man on horseback emerging from Mojaddedi's compound. Despite the headsets they wore, he still had to shout to be heard over the sound of the rotor blades. He and two other agents were aboard the Marine Corps Huey, keeping an eye on Harm and Mac. Just in case.

Serina Coleman, the only female member of the team, raised a bulky camera with an attached telephoto lens to her face. She sighted in on the rider and snapped a round of pictures. "Looks like Mojaddedi's nephew," she answered. "Anwar. He lives in Pakistan, but he drives Mojaddedi's trucks back across the border pretty frequently."

Clay narrowed his eyes as he stared at the mounted figure, which had spurred its horse into a run.

"He's in a hurry," the second agent—a man named Bradbury—commented.

Clay set that observation aside to be considered at a later time. He was still following his earlier train of thought. "Did we know Anwar was here?"

Serina shook her head. "No, but on Mojaddedi's normal schedule a shipment would have gone out about five days ago, so it's reasonable to guess he might have arrived yesterday or the day before on the return."

Clay's gut tightened another notch. "That fits our time frame." He glanced at Serina. She shrugged.

"Could just be coincidence. Like I said, he does it pretty frequently."

"Any idea where he's going?" Clay looked back down at the rider.

Bradbury shook his head. "Maybe he's got a hot date." He met Clay's gaze. "Should we follow him?"

Clay considered the possibility. "He didn't happen to have a big metal box strapped to his saddle did he?" he asked Serina.

She shook her head with a small smile.

"Then lets stick with our people for now. Once we get the downloads from the satellite we'll hopefully be able to figure out where he went."

"O.k."

Feeling vaguely uneasy, Clay went back to looking out the open door of the Huey. He wished he had some way of knowing whether they were looking in the right place or not. Harm's analogy about kicking over rocks seemed particularly apt. They were searching blind.

He sighed. Just another day in the CIA.

They continued to fly back and forth across the area surrounding Mojaddedi's compound for nearly an hour until they saw Harm, Mac and their guide emerge. The three climbed into their vehicle and set out for Echo, raising a long dust plume in their wake. The helicopter paced them at a distance.

"What now, sir?" the pilot asked after a few minutes. 

Clay sighed. "Take us home, lieutenant." He glanced at his companions. "We'll see what the video tells us."

#

Hamzah arrived in the little town of Noja with foam on his horse and his face caked with sweat and dust. A man named Aashiq Mir lived there. Mir fancied himself a warlord, though he was really little more than a bandit and a thug. But that made him particularly useful to Hamzah right now.

Being the nephew of Nabeel Mojaddedi, he was taken to see Mir immediately. 

Aashiq Mir was a dirty man. In a country like Afghanistan, it was impossible to keep the dust from gathering on skin and clothing, but Aashiq's robes looked like they hadn't even been shaken out in a week. His hair and beard were greasy from his food, and many of his teeth had turned black. 

Hamzah didn't bother to plaster a smile on his face as Aashiq greeted him with a traditional hug.

"I have a grave and urgent favor to ask of you," Hamzah said after the bare minimums of politeness had been met. "In the name of my uncle."

"Of course," Aashiq told him. "I would be honored to help such a great man in any way I can. What can I do?" He seemed sincere in his desire to help, and probably was. Gaining Mojaddedi's favor was no small thing.

"Do you still have men stationed at the Asbadi wash?" The wash, where the dry riverbed cut between two tall hills, was a useful shortcut between the American's Echo base and the outlying towns to the south. Mir had been keeping men there to request a toll of the passing Americans, which they frequently paid.

Aashiq gave him a curious look. "Of course."

"Are they armed?"

Aashiq's expression went from curious to alarmed. "Of course. Do you want me to attack the Americans?"

Hamzah met his gaze. "They have stolen something very precious from my uncle and right now they are taking it back to their base. As if they don't have riches enough, they have to come here and plunder us!" He let some of his hatred of Americans show. "They didn't know I was there. I snuck out as soon as I could and came to you because I know you to be a loyal friend to my uncle. Will you help him now?"

Aashiq stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then he smiled, an unpleasant expression. "You know I would do anything for your uncle. How many are there?"

"Only three, and one is a woman."

Aashiq shook his head at the absurdity of such a thing.

"They carry M-16s," Hamzah went on, "but one is a Navy officer and the woman is an officer as well. I doubt they will be much trouble."

"What did they take?" As they talked, Aashiq led him deeper into the house, to a small radio set. 

Hamzah had an answer ready. "My uncle's strongbox." He sketched the size and with his hands. "It is very heavy."

Aashiq chuckled. "No doubt, but my men are strong. We will make sure your uncle's property is returned to him."

Hamzah smiled. "You're a good friend. My uncle will be grateful." He wrapped his robes more tightly around him. "If you'll give me a fresh horse, I'll go meet them." The hills around Asbadi were rugged and barren, many riddled with caves Al Queda had abandoned months earlier. He would be able to disappear, he was certain. Even with the Americans' satellite eyes watching.

#

"They get you coming and going, don't they, Corporal?" Harm shook his head as two men stepped out into the middle of the dirt track that passed for a road in these parts, blocking their path. They'd passed these two on their way to Mojaddedi's, and the Corporal had given them a couple of bills by way of a toll.

Lance Corporal Ramos only shrugged as he applied the brakes. "Economic aid is economic aid, sir." The men were several hundred yards in front of the HumVee. They wore World War II vintage Russian rifles slung on their shoulders. As they'd passed these two on the way out to Mojaddedi's, Harm had wondered if they even had ammunition for the ancient weapons.

The vehicle slowed as they approached. Suddenly, Mac's hand shot out, gripping his tightly.

"Harm, something's wrong." Her dark eyes flicked from side to side, taking in their surroundings.

Harm instinctively tightened his grip on the M-16 propped beside him. "Look alert, Corporal," he told Ramos, then turned to Mac. "Where?" 

She shook her head, a minute jerk of motion. Her eyes continued to scan the dusty hills that surrounded them. "Not sure. Just a gut instinct."

Harm trusted his wife's instincts. He turned to Ramos. "Stop here, Corporal." The Marine obediently halted the vehicle in the middle of the road, nearly a hundred yards from the waiting Afghans. Harm's gaze roamed across the hills, searching for any sign of people—cascading stones, a flash of sunlight of metal, motion that didn't fit with the gentle breeze. He had slightly better than 20/20 eyesight and an excellent ability to separate and catalogue images and motion, an ability honed razor sharp by years of combat flying.

He caught the bright slash of motion the moment it began—a slender body accelerating straight toward them from the shadows between two rock outcroppings on the nearest hillside. His brain immediately identified the threat and reflex kicked in.

"_Missile!_" He grabbed a fistful of Mac's jacket, dragging her bodily with him as he launched himself out of the HumVee. In his peripheral vision, he could see the gray-white trail of exhaust gasses left by the rocket as it shot toward them. He felt the shock of his boots hitting the ground and Mac's off-balance weight crashing into him a moment later. He staggered as, behind him, the shoulder launched rocket slammed into their vehicle with a metallic _crump_ that immediately gave way to a deafening roar. Pain lanced through his ears and into his head from the shock wave. It picked him up and threw him forward, tearing Mac out of his grasp. The world wheeled around him—dirt, sky and fire swinging past in a dizzying montage. He heard Mac cry out before the ground reached up to smack him. He landed hard and rolled, coming to rest on his stomach.

For a moment, Harm couldn't move. He had just long enough to wonder if he'd broken his spine before his stunned lungs resumed their function. He drew a ragged breath, choking on the dust. His fingers curled against the ground as he regained awareness of his body. With that awareness came pain, though Harm couldn't have pinpointed a specific location. He felt like he'd gone twelve rounds with a championship boxer. Everything ached. He forced his eyes open.

Mac lay a few feet away, on her back. Her head was turned so he couldn't see her face. He couldn't tell if she was breathing. An acrid smell stung his nose, the scent seeming to fit with the crinkling roar that filled his ears. A moment later he identified the sound and the smell—fire. He turned his head a fraction, the largest movement he'd managed so far. What was left of the HumVee lay upside down about thirty feet off the road. Smoke rose off it in a billowing cloud, primarily from the burning tires. Armed men walked around the destroyed vehicle, turning over the scattered debris. There was a great deal of shouting back and forth. Harm got the impression they were looking for something. He wondered where Corporal Ramos was, and if he'd gotten out of the truck in time.

Harm was slowly creeping on his stomach toward his wife when the tenor of the shouting changed. It sounded like they'd found whatever it was. As Harm watched, two men squatted down then lifted a large metal box between them. An orange radiation symbol decorated the side, half-obscured by a coating of dust. Harm stared in confusion for a moment, until it dawned on him what he was seeing.

__

The plutonium! We had it in the truck with us! Webb and his people had been right to finger Mojaddedi. But how had it ended up in their vehicle, and why?

Those thoughts faded, however, when he saw another man bringing horses forward. The two men with the box headed over to meet him, and Harm realized his chances of getting to the plutonium were rapidly dwindling.

Instinctively, his hand went to his hip, finding his sidearm still in its holster. He thumbed the restraining strap off as he counted targets. There were eight, assuming whoever had fired that LAW rocket wasn't still up there. Harm doubted he could get them all—in fact, he knew he couldn't. But he also knew he had to try. That box contained the most difficult to obtain piece of a nuclear weapon. He couldn't just watch it walk away.

With a silent prayer to God to watch over Mac for him, Harm surged to his knees and raised his weapon. He squeezed the trigger. One of the men carrying the plutonium spun away, falling to the dirt. Unable to balance the sudden weight, the other man collapsed beneath the inhumanly heavy box. Harm heard the sharp crack as one of the unfortunate man's legs buckled, the bone shattering. The man screamed shrilly. 

Harm swung toward the rest of the group, getting off four more shots while men dove to the ground or ducked away. One man went down with a bullet in his shoulder. Harm heard the staccato bark of automatic rifles as the men began to return fire and knew his time was almost up. A bullet smacked into his left arm, rocking him and sending shooting pain from his elbow up into his shoulder. He recovered his aim and managed to drop one more before something came and kicked him twice in the chest. Everything went black.


	8. 7

Chapter 7

Mac's first impressions were of thunderous noise and a bright light strobing somewhere beyond her closed eyelids. She squinted against the painful red glow, automatically raising a hand to shield her eyes before she opened them. Pain shot through her arm at the motion, a stab like the touch of a hot poker. She groaned and rolled over onto her side, away from the pain and the glare. She choked on the gritty air that whipped around her, each breath difficult.

The noise resolved itself into the _whump whump whump_ of helicopter blades echoing off the dusty hills Mac knew surrounded her. She wasn't sure what had happened. One moment Harm was shouting something and the next he was throwing her from the HumVee. For a moment, Mac couldn't figure out why, but then she remembered.

There had been an explosion. 

She snapped back to herself in a rush of adrenaline. _Harm!_ Her eyes flew open. 

Harm lay sprawled on his back a few feet away. Blood soaked the sleeve of his BDUs. Dust kicked up by the helicopter hovering low overhead clung to the dark stain, turning it from black to an ugly shade of brown.

"Harm!" Mac started to roll onto her hands and knees, and promptly threw up. When the heaves subsided, she wiped her mouth on her shoulder, then spent a moment gathering herself to try again. Her right arm throbbed angrily, the stabbing pain only adding to her nausea. She looked at it only to discover a jagged piece of bone poking out just above her wrist. Blood oozed around the spot. Tucking that arm against her chest, she awkwardly hauled herself up and crawled toward her husband.

A dozen yards away, the burning wreck of their vehicle sent up an oily gray plume. The downdraft from the descending helicopter whipped the column of smoke into a billowy vortex. Robed forms lay scattered around the overturned HumVee. One, she noted, was still moving, rolling back and forth in agony, though if he made any sound she couldn't hear him over the helicopter blades.

Mac reached her husband's side and all extraneous thoughts fell away. She ignored the wound in his left arm after a cursory glance. It was in his biceps and there wasn't enough blood to indicate a major artery had been hit. The sidearm lying a few inches beyond his outstretched right hand indicated he'd been awake and able to at least draw his weapon. She suspected he was responsible for the bodies she could see. What that didn't tell her was why he was down now. 

She slipped her fingers beneath his collar, breathing a silent sigh of relief when she found his pulse. It was a little fast for her liking, but it would do for now. His helmet looked intact, without any visible sign of scoring or other damage. Her gaze moved lower, eventually pausing as she spotted the two ragged holes in the front of his BDU shirt. Bullet holes. She fumbled one-handed at the buttons as sudden terror overwhelmed her.

She was distantly aware of the Marines who jumped out of the helicopter as soon as it set down. They fanned out, forms bent over their weapons. Two approached Mac and knelt on either side of her, weapons cradled against them.

"Ma'am! Are you all right?" one shouted at her. 

Mac barely spared him a glance. "Help me get this off him, Sergeant! He took two rounds in the chest. I need to see if they penetrated." The Marines' presence bolstered her and helped her keep her rising hysteria contained.

The sergeant slung his weapon while his companion remained in a crouch, scanning the area around them in constant vigil. 

"Here, let me do that, ma'am. You've got a nasty break there." The sergeant indicated her arm as he took over the job of opening Harm's shirt. 

Cradling her aching arm against her, Mac sat back on her knees as he pulled Harm's shirt open, exposing the black Kevlar vest beneath. Mac stared at the two neat holes punched in it. The first was in the lower right quadrant, the second center mass.

The sergeant ripped the velcro closures open, then pulled up the front piece of the vest, laying it on the ground over Harm's head. Mac bit her lip against a cry of alarm. Two tears, surrounded by little halos of blood, decorated his t-shirt.

"It's o.k., ma'am," the sergeant told her after a short inspection. "The vest did its job. He just got kissed." As she watched, he reached through one of the ragged holes and extracted the flattened lump of lead that was all that remained of one of the bullets. He held it on his palm, showing it to her. With trembling fingers, Mac took the little disk. She turned it in her hand, examining it. The dull gray metal was streaked with Harm's blood, but she could see through his torn shirt that all it had left behind was a raw spot on his chest about the size of a silver dollar, surrounded by bruising. The sergeant fished out the other bullet while Mac tucked the one she held into a pocket of her BDUs.

As if on cue, Harm groaned. The sergeant's body shielded his face from the sun, and after a moment his eyes opened. He blinked groggily a few times before focusing on Mac. 

He smiled. "Hey."

Mac felt her face split in a wide grin, part joy, part relief. "Hey, yourself."

He started to move and the smile turned into a moan of pain. The hand on the uninjured side went to his chest. "Ahhh, that hurts. What happened?"

The sergeant and Mac supported him as he struggled to a seated position.

"You took two rounds in the chest and a third in the arm is what happened," Mac informed him. Harm glanced down at himself in surprise.

"Looks like some of the local thugs ambushed you, sir," the sergeant added. "They probably belong to a guy named Mir. This is his territory. Though why he'd want this kind of trouble is beyond me."

Harm stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed.

"What about Corporal Ramos?" Mac asked suddenly. She hadn't thought about their guide until that moment, and felt a flash of shame for having been so consumed with Harm's safety that she hadn't even considered the other man.

The sergeant shook his head. "He didn't make it out of the vehicle before it got hit, ma'am."

Mac stared at the ground for a moment. Harm didn't react. She couldn't tell if he'd even heard the sergeant. 

Suddenly, Harm reared to his feet, dragging Mac with him. He stared into her face, his blue eyes fierce. "They were after the plutonium. It was in our vehicle, Mac. I saw the box." He turned to look out across the barren landscape. "They took off with it on horseback. I don't know which direction." He paused. "How long has it been since they hit us?"

Mac consulted her internal clock as she tried to catch up with the new information. "Uh... thirty-six minutes, forty-four seconds."

The sergeant gave her a funny look, which she ignored.

She looked up at her husband. "Why would Mojaddedi put the plutonium in our vehicle?"

Harm shrugged, though only with the uninjured side. "I don't know. Maybe he's not in on the plot or there was some kind of internal falling out. Maybe he was trying to give it back to us."

Mac brushed her hair back from her face, a hopeless task in the ever-present wind. "And the other faction decided to take it back?" She frowned. "Maybe. But why wouldn't he tell us, if that were the case?"

Another half-shrug. "No idea. It's a totally unsubstantiated theory. It was just the first thing that came to me." 

Mac had no response to that. Her gaze strayed to the burning vehicle. Three Marines were pulling Corporal Ramos' body from the wreckage. Anger welled up inside her.

"If they're on horseback, Harm, they can't have gotten far. This is rugged country, even for horses."

He nodded. "Let's radio back and let Colonel Flynn know what happened. And Webb." He paused for a moment, his gaze locking on her broken wrist as if he'd only just noticed it. She saw his eyes darken with the same haunted expression he'd worn the entire time she'd been in the hospital after Tony Ariel nearly killed her. But all he said was, "We can commandeer this bird to search while they get something better organized."

Deeply touched by the show of respect, Mac nodded. Together they headed toward the waiting helicopter. Since she was the Marine, not to mention the senior officer, Mac gave the helicopter's crew their new orders while Harm used the radio.

A few minutes later they were airborne. The corpsman apologized profusely both before and after setting Mac's wrist. She managed not to scream when he did it, mostly because she was afraid Harm would try to send her back to Echo if he thought she was in too much pain. Once it was over, she leaned back against the cool metal of the fuselage, sweating profusely and trying to will her rebellious stomach to settle. The corpsman moved on to Harm. Typical of her husband's unnatural luck, the bullet had gone straight through the muscle without hitting anything important. Mac mentally shook her head. Only Harm could take three bullets and come out with nothing but a flesh wound. 

They sat on opposite sides of the Huey, staring out the open doors from the small space beside the door gunners. The dusty, scrub-dotted hills flew by beneath them, the shadowy outline of the helicopter flowing across them in rippling waves. Soon, two additional helicopters with Webb's people and more Marines aboard joined the search, but there was nothing to be seen except the hazy cloud of gray smoke from the burning HumVee that marked the center of their ever-expanding spiral. Nothing larger than a snake moved on the desert hills.

Mac felt increasingly desperate as one hour passed, then another. The constant swaying, jouncing motion of the helicopter robbed her of her equilibrium, as if she were perpetually in that state of having just stepped off a spinning ride at an amusement park. She pressed her cheek against the edge of the door, feeling the machine's heavy vibration in her teeth, and stared at the unbroken dun-colored scenery. A half dozen men and horses couldn't just disappear, could they?

Distantly she could hear Harm's voice as he talked with someone on the radio. She turned to look at him, her gaze skipping across the dark body bag that lay on the floor between them. The man who sat opposite her on the floor of the Huey bore little resemblance to the dashing naval officer she knew and loved. His dark hair was grayed with dust, and his tan skin streaked with dirt and blood. His BDUs, likewise, were dirty and torn, and the hard mask of his face was that of a soldier well acquainted with war. The blue eyes, which alternately twinkled with laughter or burned with the intensity of his emotions, had turned flat and gray. He had killed two men today, she realized. This man who shared her life and her bed, whose gentle hands evoked from her body passion unlike any she'd ever known. Those same hands had killed two men today, and they were far from the first. Mac understood what it meant to take a life. She knew what that felt like. But for her it had been an isolated incident—a desperate measure in a desperate time. For Harm, it was simply part of his profession. 

The object of her thoughts remained oblivious to her introspection. Harm thumbed the switch on the radio, ending his conversation, and set the bulky piece of electronics on the floor between his feet.

"Webb says there may be caves in these hills," he shouted over the deafening roar of the blades. "Which would explain why we haven't seen anyone. Flynn's called up a full-scale manhunt. The advance units should be arriving any time, with some more choppers."

Mac nodded, then turned to their pilot. "Lieutenant! How's our fuel?"

"We've got about twenty minutes left, ma'am," he answered over his shoulder. "I've got orders to wait for the extra choppers to get here, then take you and the commander back to base."

Mac couldn't argue with that, much as she wanted to. She, at least, needed to feel solid ground beneath her feet, and the Marines from Echo were much better trained and equipped for this kind of search mission. She nodded at the back of the pilot's head.

"Thank you, lieutenant."

#

They landed in the midst of a beehive of activity. Mac gingerly stepped down from the helicopter with assistance from Harm and the Marine sergeant. The moment her feet hit the ground, the world canted sideways.

"Whoa, there." Harm caught her elbow. "Mac, you o.k.?" She felt the sergeant brace her on the far side.

"Yeah." She tried to shake them both off, without success. "Just dizzy."

"Might be a concussion," the corpsman said, stepping down behind them. "You were both unconscious for about thirty minutes."

"My head doesn't hurt," Mac protested. "And I can walk," she added pointedly as Harm moved closer.

Caught, he rolled his eyes. "Don't let go of her," he instructed the sergeant.

"No, sir," the sergeant agreed.

Slowly, they made their way to the medical unit. By the time they got there, Mac was ready to let someone carry her. Her vision swam and her tongue felt like it was coated with fur. The nausea had come back full force, too.

"In here," a woman's voice said. "Lie her down in here." Mac looked up into a sea of people dressed in blue scrubs. The woman, a severe-looking blond about her own age, indicated a small room defined by moveable partitions. It contained a standard examination table, a rolling tray full of instruments, and a linens hamper. Mac staggered toward the table, thinking she'd never seen anything so welcome in her life. She collapsed onto it and felt someone lift her feet onto the table. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on breathing in the hopes that it would keep her from throwing up. Marines didn't get sick.

A gentle hand touched her hair, stroking it back from her face. Harm. She smiled into the darkness behind her closed eyelids.

"Don't you have a bullet wound someone should be looking at?" she couldn't resist asking him.

"It'll keep until I know you're all right." His voice was rough. His fingers gave her cheek a final caress, then moved down across her shoulder, trailing the length of her arm to twine tightly around her own.

"I'm fine."

"I'll believe that when the doctor says it."

Mac heard a shuffle of people moving around her. "Colonel Rabb, I'm doctor Stevens," said a new voice, a man's pleasant baritone. "I'm told you were caught in an explosion. You have a broken wrist and are feeling dizzy."

"Yes," Mac admitted without opening her eyes. She still felt like she was on the helicopter, bouncing and spinning.

"And you were unconscious for a while?"

"Yes."

"All right. Well, let's take a look."

#

An hour later she was resting much more comfortably in a regular hospital bed with an IV in one arm and a splint on the other. The fluids were for a case of mild dehydration, which the doctor suspected was the cause of the dizziness. In addition, he'd checked her over for additional broken bones, and after a careful examination of her head had ruled out concussion. At that point, the medical staff had managed to drag Harm away to have his own wounds looked at.

Mac lay quietly, until the sound of a curtain being pulled aside made her turn her head. Doctor Stevens, a Navy lieutenant commander's insignia on the collars of his khaki uniform, waited for her to notice him before stepping inside.

"How are you feeling, colonel?" he asked as he hooked the nearby stool and seated himself on it. 

"Better," Mac told him. 

"Still dizzy?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Nausea?"

Mac sighed. "A little," she admitted. "Is that from the dehydration, too? Not that I understand how I managed to get dehydrated in the first place. I've been keeping up with my water intake. This isn't the first time I've been in a desert."

Commander Stevens waited patiently until she'd finished. She supposed he was used to people taking out their misdirected frustrations on him.

"Actually, that's what I was coming to talk to you about."

The quiet statement stunned Mac into silence more thoroughly than any shout could have. She stared at him as a cold knot formed in her gut.

"Tell me."

He nodded. "It's very simple. You're pregnant, colonel. The standard requirements aren't enough for both you and the baby."

For a moment, Mac forgot to breathe. Exhilaration and terror at the idea combined to choke her into silence. But eventually she regained mastery of her voice.

"How—How far along... am I?"

He shrugged. "A blood test can't tell us that, but certainly no more than a couple of months."

Two months... A new fear seized her. "Doctor, I was exposed to some amount of radiation about five weeks ago. Commander Rabb and I, both. They cleared us onboard the _Seahawk_, and said we hadn't had enough exposure to pose a threat..." She stared into Stevens' hazel eyes, hoping he could reassure her.

He considered her gravely. "Did they draw blood when they checked you out?"

She nodded. 

"Then you weren't pregnant at the time. We do that one as part of pretty much every blood screening on female service members."

Mac slowly began to relax. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She drew a deep breath. "So, less than five weeks?" A smile slipped out of hiding at the thought of a baby. She unconsciously laid her good hand across her stomach, curving it protectively around the invisible life there.

"Sounds like it," Stevens agreed. "Which brings me to my next topic."

Mac looked up expectantly, and was not reassured by his solemn expression.

He met her gaze. "You took a pretty hard fall today, which _can_ cause miscarriage. I'm not saying it _will_." He held up a hand as if to forestall the bolt of panic his pronouncement generated. "So far, things look good, and unless you experience abdominal cramping or start to bleed, there's no reason for concern. I am going to insist that you remain under observation until tomorrow, and then, if things continue to look good, you'll be headed for Kandahar and then back to the States."

Too overwhelmed to argue with him, Mac simply nodded. She knew it was policy, though some small part of her rebelled at anything that caused her to be treated differently from a man.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Stevens asked after a moment.

Mac moistened her lips. "Can I see my husband?"

He chuckled. "Of course. He's outside—probably wearing a groove in the floor as we speak."

Mac grinned. That sounded like Harm.

"Anything else?"

She shook her head. "Maybe later. Right now I can hardly think straight."

His smile was warm. "That's not too uncommon. Well, congratulations to you both, colonel." He stood. "I'll send the commander in on my way out, and be back to check on you in a couple of hours."

"Thank you." Mac watched him duck past the curtained partition. Suddenly nervous, she smoothed the regulation blanket across her lap and waited for her husband to appear.


	9. 8

Chapter 8

Mac's heart leapt into her throat as Harm ducked through the curtain into her hospital room. She couldn't help but smile, albeit nervously, thinking of the news she had to give him. He grinned back in obvious relief, his gaze flicking across her as if verifying for himself that she was indeed all right.

"You look a lot better than the last time I saw you," he commented as he crossed to her bedside. He hooked the single stool with his foot and sat down on it. Careful of the IV line, he reached over to take her hand in both of his. His thumb idly traced the scar on her forearm where it trailed across the inside of her wrist. "How do you feel?"

"Better than the last time you saw me." She met his gaze for a moment, then broke away to study him. He'd washed the worst of the dirt from his face and found a new t-shirt to wear. A pristine white bandage wrapped around his upper arm was the only indication of the action they'd seen. "How about you?"

Harm flexed his shoulders in a shrug. "Just a little sore. I'll probably be so stiff I can barely move tomorrow, though. The doc doesn't think I broke any ribs, just bruised 'em."

Mac shook her head slowly. "You have no idea how terrified I was when I saw those bullet holes in your shirt." She instinctively tightened her fingers around his. Now more than ever the idea of losing him sent a lance of fear straight through her.

His gaze clouded. "Let's hear it for Kevlar." There was no levity behind the joke. "I was pretty surprised when I woke up."

Mac stared at him as she deciphered the real meaning behind his statement. He wouldn't say it out loud, but the truth was clear enough. He'd been surprised to wake up at all. For a moment, Mac wanted to rant at him for putting his life at risk when there were people who simply couldn't live without him, but she bit back the impulse. As much as it frightened her, she loved the raw courage that made Harm who he was. 

His solemn expression hadn't changed. He turned her arm, exposing the scar. "Actually, I have a pretty good idea how scared you were."

Their gazes met, locked. Mac's breath caught in her throat as she leaned toward her husband, needing to feel his arms around her. He was there in an instant. The stool clattered as he abandoned it in favor of the edge of the bed, his arms slipping around her waist and drawing her close.

Mac closed her eyes, tucking her face against his neck, and felt his lips in her hair.

"I love you, Sarah."

She smiled. "I love you, too." She rested in his arms for a short time, then nuzzled him affectionately. "Are you ready for some good news?"

"After a day like today, I could use some," he admitted.

Mac pulled back far enough to look into his face. She could feel his arm pressed lightly against her stomach, his hand resting on her hip. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You know that spare bedroom we said we'd probably just leave empty until there was reason to turn it into a nursery?"

He stared at her, his blue eyes unguarded. "Yeah..." 

Mac couldn't help the wide smile that spread across her face. She wasn't totally over her own shock at the knowledge, but enough so for excitement to take over. "Well, now there's reason."

Harm's stunned expression was priceless. "A baby?"

Mac nodded. "Yep. That's why I was so _mphh_—" The rest of her sentence was lost as he caught both sides of her face and kissed her soundly.

She returned the kiss until she could no longer contain her bubbling laughter. They broke apart, Harm trailing his lips down her neck before hugging her tightly.

"We're going to have a baby," he said into her hair, his voice tinged with wonder. Then he sat back abruptly. "_You_ are going back to Washington." His expression was set, his eyes dark and fierce. "On the next flight out of this place."

Strangely enough, Mac agreed with his sentiment. All she could think about was the tiny life inside her. Protecting _that_ took precedence over everything else. She nodded. "The doctor wants to keep me under observation until tomorrow, but then yes, I'll be headed home."

Harm blinked at her easy acquiescence, and emitted a short laugh. "Now I know it's real."

They stared at each other in silence then, as the enormity of the situation slowly sank in. Mac reached for her husband's hand, taking comfort in his strong grip.

"A year ago this all seemed so impossible." Mac looked away as the realization hit her. A year ago, Harm had barely been on his feet after his crash, and she'd been running as far and as fast as she could from the knowledge that she'd nearly railroaded herself into marrying a man she didn't love.

"It's been a pretty strange trip." When she turned to look, she found Harm watching her from under his eyebrows. His expression was concerned, but not terrified, as it would have been back then. They had, indeed, come a long way since those awful days a year ago. His mouth curled upward in a smile. "Though I think the destination was well worth it."

Mac smiled back. "And a lot more, if that's what it took."

Harm raised her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. With the other hand he gestured toward her stomach. "So, when exactly...?" 

Mac cocked her head, deciding how to interpret the question. "About three weeks ago." She'd done some calculating during the brief interlude between Dr. Stevens' leaving and Harm's arrival. "We've been so busy I didn't even realize my period was late."

"Three weeks? Hmmm." His gaze unfocused, no doubt searching his memory for specific events that fit into that time frame. Unfortunately, there weren't that many to choose from. Their love life had been... sporadic, to put it kindly. Too many nights spent out of town on cases, in situations where being officers took precedence over being spouses. Even when they were in Washington, getting both of them home at the same time and with enough energy to do something with the opportunity...

From his expression she could tell Harm's thoughts were travelling a rather different path than her own. His eyes sparkled with wicked humor as he looked over at her. "The 'vette?"

For no reason she could fathom, Mac blushed. "Yeah. Probably." It was a good thing the long term parking areas at Dulles weren't too closely monitored. They _had_ both been in uniform when they left the airport, though at that hour of the night there were precious few people around to care about two officers involved in a marked breach of protocol in the front seat of a red corvette.

Harm started to laugh. "I knew I liked that car."

They sat and talked for a while longer, until a corporal stuck his head into the room. "Commander, Colonel Flynn is looking for you."

Harm nodded. "Thank you, corporal. I'll be right there."

Mac's heart sank. "Be careful, Harm. I'm not going to be here to watch your six." That thought scared her more than she cared to admit. 

Harm bent down and kissed her gently. "I will." Then he stood. "I'll see you before you head out, o.k.?"

She nodded. Their eyes met, and all the tumbling fears inside Mac came together. Just because she was going back to the United States didn't necessarily mean that she or their child would really be safe. "Get this guy, Harm," she said fiercely. 

He flashed her one of his cocky, fighter pilot grins. "We will." For a moment, the expression softened. He reached over to stroke her cheek. "Love you."

She caught his hand, pressing it to her face. "I love you, too."

#

"Commander, how are you feeling?" Colonel Flynn asked when Harm joined him. The colonel, Webb, and a mixture of Marines and CIA were grouped around a long table covered with maps and satellite photos. If anything, Flynn's expression had grown even more disapproving.

"Fine, sir." Harm stepped up beside Webb, glancing at the photos in the other man's hands. "A little sore."

"Mr. Webb, here, tells me this kind of thing is pretty much par for the course with you."

Harm gave Clay a look, to which the other man only shrugged. 

"It's the first time I've had a shoulder launched rocket fired at me, sir. I'm sorry about Corporal Ramos."

Flynn nodded somberly. "He was a good kid."

"How's Mac?" Clay asked.

Harm glanced over at Flynn, realizing that he probably hadn't told the CIA agent. He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. "She's pregnant."

Clay's head snapped up. He stared at Harm in shock for a moment before giving into a smile as well. "Way to go, Rabb."

Harm rolled his eyes at the ever-present sarcastic note in his friend's voice and Clay chuckled. "So she's going back to the States, right?"

Harm nodded.

"I'll bet she hates that."

Harm shook his head. "On the contrary. She's going quietly, which has me worried."

Clay stared at him for a moment before deciding he was joking. He abandoned further personal conversation and turned to Flynn.

"The Colonel's people picked up Mojaddedi an hour ago. He claims he didn't know anything about the plutonium. They're still questioning him, but my gut instinct is that he's telling the truth."

"What about the other man who was there?"

Clay picked up a photo that had obviously been taken from Mac's buttonhole camera. "That's Hamzah Anwar, Mojaddedi's nephew. We think he brought the plutonium into Afghanistan with the latest payment for his uncle. He lit out of Mojaddedi's place on horseback right after you talked with him."

"And after putting the plutonium in your vehicle," one of Webb's people added. 

"Where did he go?"

Clay pointed to a spot on the map. "Here. Probably to a guy named Mir, a local tough guy."

Harm put his hands on his hips as he put pieces together. "So he had Mir arrange an ambush so they could get the plutonium." He chewed on his lip. "But what was the point? Why give it to us and risk us finding it?"

"That," Clay told him, "is the sixty-four thousand dollar question."

Harm started pacing a short track beside the table. "My original thought was that we were seeing a couple of factions working at cross purposes with the plutonium, that maybe someone had gotten cold feet and was trying to get it back to us."

"By 'someone' you mean Mojaddedi?" Flynn looked up, his gaze sharp.

Harm nodded. "For lack of a better culprit, sir, yes."

"Sorry," Clay said, handing Flynn a picture. "That theory doesn't hold water. We have Anwar clearly putting the box _in_ the vehicle." He pointed to the picture. "The man helping him is called Sharad. He's one of Mojaddedi's guards."

Harm looked at the grainy satellite photo, deciding he would have to take Webb's word for the men's identities. For sure, neither one was Mojaddedi, but beyond that, he couldn't say anything definitive. 

"Is Anwar Al Queda?" Harm asked. Clay gave him a look that said _Duh_, and Harm quickly amended, "I mean, other than his involvement with smuggled plutonium out of Pakistan, can we link him to Al Queda?" He shot Clay a dirty look.

"Not at the moment, but they're working on it back at Langley."

"Where's Anwar now?"

Flynn brushed scattered photos away from the map. "He got a new horse from Mir and headed north. He disappeared into this wash here." He pointed to a jagged outline a couple of miles south and east of the ambush site. "I have a team headed there as we speak. They should be reporting in soon. I've also put in a request for a Predator* to be tasked to us."

"Which you'll get, Colonel." Clay said. "This manhunt has officially become the top priority. The President wants hourly updates."

Flynn nodded, his attention focused on the information spread before them. "You gentlemen sure know how to throw a party," he commented.

AN:

* The Predator is an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle used for reconnaissance. UAVs were originally put into use by the CIA, but are gaining favor with the military in a hurry because of their ability to provide aerial reconnaissance data with much less effort and expense than satellites. The Predator is actually pretty clunky, with a cruising altitude of approximately 20,000 feet and a top speed of only 120 knots. (O.k., I'll stop jabbering.)


	10. 9

Chapter 9

Hamzah crept through the dark tunnels, his hand wrapped around the guide rope bolted to the native rock walls. He had helped devise the system of lead lines that led to various portions of this cave complex. Right now, he was following a thick cotton rope, feeling its dense softness beneath his fingertips while his eyes strained against the dark. Ghostly shadows and pale forms rose up around him, conjured by his brain in the absence of any kind of light. The rope would take him to the southern exits, which hopefully would also lead him to Mir's bandits. 

Hamzah had long since left his horse behind, tied up at a conjunction of four branching tunnels. He had used his coat to smudge out his retreating footsteps and hoped the horse's restless pacing would further confuse his trail. He estimated he'd walked nearly two miles since then. Distant sounds of dripping water and strange, sourceless echoes were his only companion.

Much of the time, he thought of Avi. His beautiful boy, with dark eyes like his mother and the most carefree laugh Hamzah had ever heard. Children truly were the gift of Allah, and he wondered if he would ever get to see his again. Now, after putting his reckless plan in motion, he was plagued with doubt about his choice. Would the Americans put the pieces together enough to realize how they had been duped? If so, his uncle and Avi might be in great danger. American retribution left little behind but smoking rubble. They would not care that they were murdering an old man and an innocent child.

Pushing his dark thoughts away, Hamzah continued on. He had chosen his course and, for good or bad, he would see it through. But as he walked, he prayed to Allah to be merciful to his beautiful Avi and keep him safe.

His prayers were interrupted some little time later by a distant noise that didn't belong with the natural sounds of the caverns—a sharp retort, followed by distant, tinny shouts, and the stuttering _tap-tap-tap_ of automatic gunfire. Hamzah picked up his pace, searching for signs of real light amid the false shadows his mind conjured for him.

Using his ears to keep him pointed toward the ruckus, Hamzah hurried through the darkness. He heard shouts in multiple languages, cries of pain, the bark of gunfire and the horrible screaming of a mortally injured horse. As the sounds grew louder, a glow began to creep into his vision. Soon, he was able to make out the rough outlines of walls and see the gritty stone floor beneath his sandals. The flickering yellow of torchlight grew brighter with each step.

He found the horses first. The remaining animals stood together, blocking the tunnel. Hamzah could see them quivering in terror, their eyes rolling as they shifted and stamped. Someone had tethered their reins to one of the bolts that held the guide rope he'd been following. Soon enough, the bolt would come loose. Hamzah could see that it was already partially pulled out. The ongoing firefight continued somewhere up ahead in the tunnel.

Hamzah looked the horses over, and suddenly exhaled a sharp sigh of relief. There it was! Strapped atop one of the saddles was the heavy lead box and its precious contents. 

Clucking reassuringly at the horses, he slipped toward the tether point. The horse he wanted was in the middle of the mass of animals, which would make it difficult to get without panicking the others.

Slowly, he approached the head of the nearest horse. The horse rolled its eyes at him and snorted, pulling at the reins. Whispering softly, Hamzah reached up to stroke its nose, gripping the long, narrow bone just above the nostrils in a reassuring gesture. The horse relaxed a fraction, and Hamzah ducked beneath the large head, repeating the process with its neighbor. 

The horse he wanted was a shaggy, stocky-legged mountain horse like the others. It's coat was chestnut, and a jagged white blaze ran down its face. Two white socks, nearly equal in height, marked the front legs.

"You're a handsome one, aren't you?" he murmured to the frightened animal as he slowly drew a knife and cut the gelding's reins free. With a gentle tug on the reins, he urged the horse to back up. After a moment, it did so, causing a ripple of nervous motion from the other horses. Hamzah tried not to think of the huge bodies surrounding him. The shifting animals brushed his shoulders on either side, and he was all too aware of how easily he could be crushed if they panicked. 

Keeping himself in line with the chestnut's head, he carefully guided the animal out of the cluster. He turned to lead the horse a short ways down the tunnel, where he tied him off at another bolt. Then he went back. Repeating his earlier actions, he worked his way back to the tie off point and cut the rest of their reins free. As a group, they shifted their weight, sensing a change. Hamzah backed quickly away. Then, with a shout, he reached out to smack the nearest animal on the rump. It squealed and jumped forward, setting off a chain reaction. The frightened animals wheeled in confusion and terror. Hamzah continued to shout and wave his arms, presenting as alarming a profile as he could manage. Then, like a dam bursting, the horses bolted in the other direction—toward the ongoing sounds of combat.

Quickly retracing his steps, Hamzah gathered up the chestnut's reins and led the animal deeper into the cavern complex.

#

When word came through that forward units had made contact in the caves near the ambush site and were taking fire, Harm barely had time to give his wife a quick kiss goodbye before he was back onboard the Huey they'd flown in on, headed for the reported coordinates. Seated beside him, Clayton Webb looked incongruous in Marine BDUs, with his decidedly non-regulation Sig P245 tucked into the bulky, sand-colored holster.

By the time they landed at the site, the firefight was over. A Marine captain with blood trickling down his cheek from a small gash met them as soon as they'd jumped down from the helicopter.

"Did you recover the plutonium?" Harm asked before the captain had a chance to speak.

The captain shook his head. "Not yet, sir, but it's a pretty big mess in there. We took down six guys—maybe seven—though if I had to swear, I'd say that one was probably the guy you tagged back at the ambush. Looked like he'd been bleeding too long to have gotten hit in this." He waved a hand toward the nearby stone face where a narrow cleft extended into the rock. Marines milled around it in purposeful confusion, dragging out bodies which were laid out in a neat row off to one side, and weapons which were unloaded then dumped unceremoniously in a pile. Under a camouflaged awning, two medics had a small triage going for a couple of Marines who'd been wounded and for one surviving Afghan. 

Clay immediately turned and headed toward the bodies. Harm nodded distractedly toward the captain, then followed. The Marine trailed them.

Clay walked the row, examining each of the dead men. His gaze flickered over toward the man being treated by the medics, then went to the captain. 

"None of them is Anwar," he said.

Harm looked the corpses over, keeping his reaction carefully in check. He'd been around enough carnage not to be surprised by anything he saw, but that didn't mean it affected him any less. He forced himself to keep his mind on the task at hand.

"I only see six." Harm, too, looked at the captain. "Where's the last body?"

The captain jerked his head toward the cave entrance. "They're still trying to dig him out." For a moment, his face took on a haunted look. "They took their horses into the caves with them, and something spooked 'em. We had to cut them down to keep from getting trampled." He shrugged, shaking his head. "A couple of them made it out, o.k. They took off down the valley, probably headed for home. The rest are in a pile on top of our last guy." He shrugged again. "Like I said, it's a pretty big mess."

Harm stared incredulously at the captain. "Didn't anyone tell you the plutonium was strapped to the saddle of one of these horses, Captain?" he demanded harshly. "Is anyone tracking down the ones that escaped to see if one of them happens to be carting an integral piece of a nuclear weapon on its back?"

The Marine stiffened, looking both alarmed and abashed. At his expression, Clay swore a long string of oaths, then took off toward the parked helicopter where his radio and headset waited.

"Harm," he called back over his shoulder. "Check the cave and see if our horse is in there." He waved in the general direction of the cave. "Maybe we got lucky."

"It'll be a first if we did," Harm muttered and with a dark look at the captain, gestured for him to lead the way.

The interior of the cave was like something out of a nightmare. Portable halogen search lights illuminated the cave's interior with stark, white light. The uncompromising glare cast sharp shadows and turned the blood that coated the floor a lurid, ugly color. For a moment, Harm could only stare at the literal pile of dead horses. Though he certainly understood the necessity of killing the animals, the results were both gruesome and pitiful. He could see on the Marines' faces the remorse they felt at the destruction of the beautiful, innocent creatures.

Stepping carefully across a stone floor made slippery with blood, Harm picked his way around the dead horses to where a crew of Marines were shifting one of the half-ton carcasses off of an equally dead man. He insinuated himself close enough to see the man's face, then backed away with a resigned sigh.

"It's not Anwar."

Marines were searching the edges of the space with hand-held lights, looking for the plutonium case. Harm watched them for a moment, then forced himself to go back and examine the horses one more time for signs that one of them might have been carrying that all-important burden. By the time he'd finished, he was feeling queasy. Ignoring the rebellion in his stomach, he turned his attention to the captain who'd briefly left to confer with some of his men and had now returned.

"Anything?" Harm asked.

The captain shook his head. "No, sir. They're getting ready to start moving deeper into the cave. Those horses came from somewhere back there."

Harm nodded. "I'm almost certain the one we want isn't here. Let me know if you find anything."

"Yes, sir."

The captain turned away, and Harm moved as quickly as he could toward the cave entrance. The warmth of the sun and the fresh, dust-flavored air washed over him the moment he stepped outside. He paused to breathe them in. Then he straightened and went in search of Clayton Webb.

He found Clay over by the Huey, poring over a map of the area that lay spread across the floor of the helicopter.

"Anything?" Clay asked as he walked up.

Harm shook his head. "They're still exploring, though. And, the last guy wasn't Anwar."

Clay nodded without looking up. "I've got some of Flynn's people going after the loose horses. A helicopter already did a flyby and reported that neither of the ones they've spotted has our box. Now they're checking the backtrail to see if maybe it got dislodged along the way."

Before Harm could say anything in response, Clay's radio crackled. He held it to his ear, listening for several minutes while injecting the occasional "Uh huh" or "O.k". Eventually, he finished the conversation and put the radio back down on the floor of the helicopter, next to the edge of the map.

He glanced at Harm. "They just found Anwar's horse in some caves about two miles from here." He pointed to a spot on the map. At Harm's confused look, he clarified, "Not the horse we're looking for, the one Anwar rode from Mir's place to here. So now we're pretty certain he went into those caves when he disappeared from view."

Harm stared at the map. "Do we know if those caves connect with the ones down here?"

"No."

Harm could only shake his head. "We need to know what this cave complex looks like! Isn't there any information about these things?"

"What would you like, Harm? A set of blueprints?" He flashed the officer a glance dripping with sarcasm. 

"How about satellite imagery?" Harm shot back. "I know there are some wavelengths that'll go through rock. Don't tell me we don't have a bird up there that can do it."

Clay's expression closed in on itself. Harm just stared at him until he began to fidget.

"How long until we get the flyover, Clay?" he asked.

Webb rolled his eyes. "Almost a day."

Harm's triumph immediately gave way to confusion. "Why so long?"

"Satellites aren't exactly at our beck and call. There are orbital physics to be considered—"

"I've taken orbital mechanics," Harm reminded him dryly. Of course, that had been more than fifteen years ago and he didn't remember any of it, but Webb didn't need to know that. "Most of our satellites can be tasked in eight hours or less."

Clay pressed his lips together in annoyance. "Ergo...?" he prompted, watching Harm closely, no doubt waiting for the lightbulb to come on.

Harm raised an eyebrow as he reached the intended conclusion. "It's not ours."

Clay gave him a quick, humorless smile. "Very good, Rabb. It's not, so we get what we get."

"Why don't _we_ have a satellite available?"

A snort. "That's so classified even I don't know."

It was Harm's turn to roll his eyes. "Lovely." He grew serious. "So, what's our worst case here?"

Clay raised his eyebrows. "Worst case? Worst case is that Anwar already has the horse and the plutonium, and he knows his way through those caves like the back of his hand."

Harm stared down at the map. "He could come out anywhere."

"Or not at all. Depending on how extensive that cave complex is, we could search for months and not explore all of it."

Harm felt a surge of dismay. "Let's not be that pessimistic, o.k.? Let's assume he's got a schedule to meet, so he'll have to return to the real world in the reasonably near future."

Clay shrugged. "Okay."

"Which way would he be most likely to go? He'll be on foot, since that horse probably can't carry both him and the box. This all strikes me as a cobbled-together plan, so I doubt anyone is going to be coming out here to get him. He's going to have to hoof it, whatever direction he takes."

Clay made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. 

After a moment, Harm realized what he'd said and grinned. "No pun intended."

Clay studied the map, turning serious once again. "Well, Jalalabad is by far the closest major city, but there are a number of towns in the area. The thing that makes this impossible is that we don't know anything about this guy." Clay's frustration began to show. "We don't know his background, where he comes from, where his friends are... anything. He just appeared out of freakin' _nowhere _with a truck full of stolen plutonium!"

Harm looked at his friend in concern. "Easy, Webb. We're still going to get him."

Clay ran a hand through his hair and nodded. "Yeah. I have the analysts back at Langley going over everything they can trying to figure this guy out."

Sighing, Harm leaned his hip against the Huey and reached for his canteen. For now, there wasn't much to do but wait.


	11. 10

Chapter 10

Mac leaned back in her narrow airline seat with a long sigh. Around her, people stood up, gathering luggage and children as they prepared to deplane. Outside the ovoid windows, a watery sun shone down on Heathrow airport, London. Mac debated getting up and heading out into the concourse to stretch her legs, but finally decided she was too tired. Her stop over was only an hour. If the cabin didn't get too hot without the air conditioning running, she could have a nice little nap in relative peace while the stewards and stewardesses went about restocking the aircraft for the next leg of the journey.

Mac couldn't believe how _tired_ she was. The fatigue was like a constant fog. Dr. Stevens had warned her that it would most likely continue through at least the early months of her pregnancy. She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift. She already missed Harm. 

Sometimes, being in the military was a pain. She almost hadn't gotten to see Harm at all before she left for Kandahar, but either by luck or design, they'd run into each other between the landing pad and the motor pool. With Webb and a good half-dozen Marines looking on, they'd only dared break protocol for a quick hug… and the whispered promise of more once Harm returned to Washington.

"Excuse me, miss? Ma'am?"

Mac woke to the hum of conversation and other bustling sounds of people filing onto the aircraft. Disoriented, she looked around to discover a man about her own age, dressed in a dark suit and standing impatiently in the aisle beside her seat. He was of Middle Eastern descent, though he'd spoken with a primarily British accent.

"Excuse me," Mac responded automatically in Farsi, still befuddled from sleep. She turned in her seat to allow him to step past her.

He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't expect to hear my native language on this flight," he commented, also in Farsi. After a brief look at his ticket, he settled in the window seat next to Mac. "And from a U.S. Marine?" He gave her a questioning look, as if uncertain he'd properly identified her uniform.

Mac nodded, rubbing the last of the sleep from her eyes. She smiled and extended her uninjured hand. "Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Rabb."

"James Farokhi." He shook her hand, returning the smile. "I suppose I don't have to ask where you're coming from." At Mac's questioning look, he continued, "A Marine who speaks Farsi—you are returning from Afghanistan, correct?"

Mac didn't let her reaction show on her face. "I speak Farsi because my grandmother is Iranian. I'm with the Judge Advocate General Corps—a lawyer."

"Ah." James shrugged as if it made no difference to him. If he noticed how she'd sidestepped his question, he gave no sign.

Mac changed the subject. "Are you headed to Washington on business?"

He nodded. "My company does a lot of business in the U.S. I make this trip at least three times a month."

Mac chuckled. "It sounds like you travel almost as much as I do."

The conversation ended there, and Mac spent a few minutes peering out the window at the busy terminal. An airplane in livery she didn't recognize captured her attention. As much as she traveled, Mac knew pretty much every major air carrier's logo, but this one was both new and eye-catching. The plane was painted white, with three colored stripes running down its sides—yellow, green and blue. About a third of the way down the fuselage, the stripes began to ripple and twine about each other, like ribbons caught in a strong breeze. They continued like that to the tail of the airplane, where they suddenly separated into dozens of individual threads that climbed the tail to sketch the outline of a woman's face. She was strikingly beautiful, her gaze soft and distant while the invisible breeze stirred her long hair. The artwork was exquisite, and Mac couldn't help the tiny "Wow" that passed her lips.

James followed her gaze. "Those Atlantic tail designs are pretty amazing, aren't they?"

Mac nodded without taking her eyes from the aircraft that was currently being pushed back from the terminal. "Atlantic?"

"Atlantic Airlines. They're new, I think. I've heard every airplane has a different face on the tail." He shrugged. "But all women, and all lovely."

They continued to chat companionably as their airplane finished loading and went through the standard preflight safety demonstrations. A woman across the aisle kept glancing over at Mac, her brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. Mac knew the expression from experience, and steeled herself against that moment when the woman figured out why she looked familiar.

Once they'd reached sufficient altitude to turn off the seatbelt signs, the woman climbed out of her seat. She stopped in the aisle, staring at Mac. "You're Sarah Rabb, aren't you?" she asked, and several heads swiveled curiously. "From _Temptation Cruise_?"

Mac sighed and forced herself to smile. "Yes, I am."

"Oooh, I thought so." The woman's eyes lit up. "You're even prettier in real life. Could I possibly get your autograph? My sister Junie and I watched your show every week. She'll never believe I met you."

Mac knew better than to try to argue. "Sure."

A young man with spiked, blond-tipped hair and headphones popped his head up over the seat in front of Mac. "Hey, I heard it was all a hoax by the network—that director guy cutting you up an' all."

Mac raised an eyebrow, fixing him with an intimidating stare she'd honed to perfection on a certain Navy commander. 

The young man seemed to shrink a bit, but his rebellious expression didn't waver. "I mean, how would we know, y'know? They can do anything with special effects these days."

Mac had heard that one before. She sighed, then carefully pulled up her uniform sleeve to expose the long scar. "It wasn't a hoax," she stated in a firm voice. 

He looked suitably impressed as she pulled her sleeve back down, smoothing away the wrinkles the action had created. At the same time, the woman who'd started the conversation handed her a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. After several months of practice, Mac had her standard dedication down pat and scrawled it without a second thought. She didn't even have to double check to make sure she put "Rabb" rather than "MacKenzie" on the end of her name any more. It had become second nature.

__

I hate flying commercial, she thought sourly as she handed both pen and paper back to their enthusiastic owner. But, the Admiral had insisted.

Not too surprisingly, a couple of other people came over, asking for autographs as well. Mac endured the moment of celebrity as gracefully as she could manage. They were becoming fewer and farther between, for which she was grateful.

"I didn't realize you were also famous," James commented once her fans had dispersed.

"I would hardly call it _famous_." Mac leaned her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes. "My husband and I were on a television show a few months ago as part of an undercover assignment. Have you ever heard of _Temptation Cruise_?"

James made a disgusted noise that Mac took as assent. "And someone really tried to kill you?"

Mac glanced at him before closing her eyes once again. "Yeah. He very nearly did, too." 

"Blimey. Did they catch him?"

Mac nodded. 

"What did he get?"

"Hmmm?"

"He was convicted, wasn't he? Sent to jail?"

"The trial isn't until October, but the case is pretty tight."

James didn't say anything after that, and Mac happily let herself slip back into a doze for the long flight home.

#

Hamzah Anwar didn't know how long he'd been traipsing through the absolute blackness. It felt like weeks, but was probably no more than a day or two. He'd lost all track of time. He slept when he was too tired to keep walking, and drank whenever his equine companion sniffed out a trickle of water falling across the stone. 

His hand had been rubbed raw by the constant contact with the rope guides he followed. Currently, that rope was a braid of four strands—three coarse, one soft. He was nearing his goal.

The rope ended abruptly, tied off in a large knot on an iron ring. Carefully, Hamzah felt around near his feet until his fingers stumbled on an object. He lit the small oil lamp, the sudden light making his eyes water. His horse snorted and nodded its head, as if in agreement that the light was really too bright.

Blinking to clear his sight, Hamzah looked around. He found himself at the entrance to a small cavern. He smiled. Crates lay stacked against the walls, labeled in a number of languages. The horse snorted again and made a beeline for a stack of hay bales that hadn't entirely rotted.

While the horse nibbled at the moldy hay, Hamzah investigated the storehouse. He found food and water, several kinds of rifles, ammunition, mines, grenades, and even a crate containing two LAW rockets, with launcher. He smiled. Now he had everything he needed to complete his journey.

#

"Hey, guys, we finally got something!" Serina Coleman bounded into the conference room with what Harm considered obscene enthusiasm for such a late—or perhaps early—hour. Webb's operatives had returned to Echo to try to make some kind of analysis of where Hamzah Anwar might be headed with the plutonium. Exploration of the cave complex continued, but the further in the Marines went, the larger the task became. The caves wound around inside the dusty foothills for miles.

Heads came up at Serina's pronouncement. 

"Let's see it," Clayton Webb said, holding out a hand for the sheets of paper she was waving.

She plopped into the chair beside him, her round face suddenly solemn. "It ain't good," she told him.

At her tone, Harm abandoned the maps he was studying and scooted his chair over next to Clay's. He saw Webb's face go blank as he braced himself.

"Consider us forewarned," Clay said.

Serina nodded and laid out two 8.5" X 11" pictures side by side on the table in front of Clay. Harm immediately recognized one as Hamzah Anwar, standing in a group of people, two of whose faces were circled in black marker. Serina pointed to that picture first.

"This was taken about two years ago at a suspected terrorist camp in Libya." She indicated the two circled faces. "These two are Al Queda, but don't have any direct ties to 9/11 as far as we know. One is now dead—killed in the fighting around Mazar-e-Sharif. We don't know about the other. There's a slight chance he's wherever Bin Laden is. Our best guess puts him high enough in the hierarchy."

"Does this guy have a name?" Clay asked as he studied the fuzzy picture.

"Masood."

Clay laid the picture back down. "O.k., so now we know pretty conclusively that this is an Al Queda-backed operation. That's hardly a surprise."

Serina rolled her eyes. "If you'd just be quiet and let me talk for a minute, I could give you the important stuff."

Had the conversation not been so serious, Harm would have smiled at the impertinent stare the CIA agent gave her superior. 

Clay raised his hands in surrender. "Go ahead."

Serina nodded, her short ponytail bobbing. She tapped the other picture. It looked like a photo taken from a distance by a high quality camera. In other words, a surveillance photo.

"This picture was taken in 1992, on the campus of Gutenberg University. This is Hanz Jaeger, at the time a student in the Nuclear Physics department. He completed his PhD in Nuclear Physics in '93. MI-5 had him under surveillance because of his course of study and the fact that his wife is Pakistani."

"So he raised a red flag in MI-5?" Harm asked.

She nodded. "Yep."

"Did anything come of it?"

Serina shook her head. "He went to work for the Institute for Nuclear Solid State Physics at the University of the Federal Armed Forces in Munich in 1993. He and his wife, who was pregnant at the time, were killed in a train wreck in May of '96."

Clay pinched the bridge of his nose. "So how does this relate to Anwar?"

"Magus says Hanz Jaeger _is_ Anwar."

Clay cursed softly. Startled, Harm looked between the two pictures, trying to find any similarity between the two men beyond dark hair and swarthy skin. "Who's Magus?" he asked after a minute.

Clay glanced over at him. "He's an analyst back at Langley—a genius at matching up before and after pictures of people who've had plastic surgery. We started calling him 'Magus' because no one else can see what he sees. His ID-ing trick is like magic." Clay turned his attention back to the two photos.

"How often is he right?" Harm asked.

Clay didn't look up. "Magus? On the easy ones—always. On the ones nobody else has a clue about—maybe seventy percent of the time." He turned his attention back to Serina. "Do we have any other evidence to support his conclusion?"

She turned to the rest of the papers in her hand. "Circumstantial, but it's pretty strong. Anwar grew up in Pakistan with his parents, but had contact with his uncle from time to time. As a teenager, he joined the mujahedin fighting the Soviets. After that, he disappeared for almost fifteen years—from 1983 to 1997. This coincides with the time Hanz Jaeger lived and went to school in Germany. We've given both Interpol and MI-5 a heads up and they're looking into Jaeger's history. Maybe something will unravel from that end."

She referenced her notes, then continued. "Anwar reappeared in Pakistan in 1997 with a wife and a new baby in tow. He reestablished contact with Mojaddedi and has worked for him as a driver and all-around gopher since then. He has made innumerable trips into and out of Afghanistan, and has also traveled into Iran, Libya, the Ivory Coast, and a couple of former Russian republics—namely Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. All of which can be explained by drug trafficking."

"Or planning a nuclear attack." Clay shook his head slowly. "Good work, Serina."

She nodded. "Thanks, boss. Wish it was better news."

"Me, too."

Serina gathered her papers and departed, leaving Harm and Clay staring at each other over the two photographs of Hamzah Anwar and Hanz Jaeger. If they were, indeed, the same man, then not only did a terrorist have the plutonium but he also knew exactly what to do with it.

The two men shared an identical thought: _Now what?_

"I'd better go fill Colonel Flynn in." Harm levered himself to his feet.

Clay rubbed his temples and ran a hand through his hair. "Then get back here. We still have to figure out where Anwar's headed."

Harm acknowledged him with a brief nod, but deep inside he was afraid he already knew the ultimate answer to that puzzle. More and more, Mac's vision of red skies over the capital seemed like an omen of evil days to come.


	12. 11

Chapter 11

Hamzah Anwar stood at the mouth of the cave, staring out into the desert night. The temperature had fallen into the forties and the cold bit at his nose and fingers. The moon showed only a crescent, milky and silver. It cast little light on the rocky ground, which would slow Hamzah's progress, but that couldn't be helped. 

Turning, he retraced his steps into the cave to where his horse waited impatiently. The gelding could smell the fresh air and no doubt longed to be free of the close, rocky tunnels through which they'd traveled for so long. Hamzah regretted that the animal would not get its wish.

Careful to stand out of the way, Hamzah used his knife to cut the saddle's girth strap. A pull toppled the saddle and the box of plutonium off the horse's back. The heavy metal box hit stone with a crash that made the horse skitter nervously away, pulling on its tether. Hamzah grabbed the backpack he had taken from among the supplies in the cave and emptied it onto the ground. Taking it with him, he crouched down next to the heavy box. His knife made short work of the latches and the box sprang open, revealing a sphere of silver metal about the size of a softball, nestled in foam. What most people didn't know was that plutonium, though radioactive, wasn't particularly dangerous in its current state. The heavy lead shielding in the carrying container was there to contain the particles released by alpha-decay, but for reasons of concealing the plutonium's existence from unwanted observation not to protect those who handled it. 

Smiling, Hamzah touched the metal sphere with his fingers. It was warm to the touch from the alpha-decay. This plutonium, fortunately, also had a certain amount of gallium added to it. Plutonium was a multi-state metal, whose density could change drastically in certain temperature regimes, allowing what had at one time been a sub-critical mass to suddenly cross the threshold into critical mass. The gallium stabilized the plutonium, avoiding that particularly nasty pitfall of handling the material without understanding its behavior.

Scooping the sphere of metal out into his hands, Hamzah admired it for one more moment, then wrapped it in a scarf and tucked it into the bottom of the backpack. He then replaced the other items on top of it. When he was done, he had a heavy but manageable load.

He moved up the cave, stopping to set the pack down against the stone. Then he went back for the horse. Unfortunately, he couldn't take the animal with him since the Americans would no doubt be looking for a man with a horse, assuming they'd figured out what he'd done. It would also be a risk to let the horse go free, for similar reasons. If they knew to be looking for one of Mir's horses, then finding it would bring them that much closer to finding him. 

A quick, hard slash severed the arteries in the animal's throat. Hamzah jumped back to avoid being splashed by the fountain of blood as the horse whinnied once and then collapsed. The pooling blood steamed in the cold night air. 

Hamzah quickly cleaned his blade and returned it to its sheath. Then he turned away, gathering up his backpack and weapons before heading out into the stark desert night.

#

Mac flipped impatiently through the inflight magazine as they approached Washington D.C. She'd run out of the ability to sleep, and was nearing her limit on sitting still. Beside her, James was working on something, scribbling notes on a white legal pad. The airplane banked, making the first of a series of familiar turns as it entered the landing pattern at Dulles. James glanced at his watch, then returned to his note taking.

Mac leaned her head back against the seat, her eyes roaming the interior of the aircraft. People were folding up their tray tables and putting computers away in preparation for landing. She glanced at her companion. James continued to write, his expression intense.

A familiar mechanical whine reverberated through the aircraft, and the constant sound of air rushing by turned throaty. Mac's fingers instinctively curled around the armrests of her seat, even as Harm's voice echoed in her head telling her it was just the flaps being extended. The airplane banked into another turn. Beside her, James jotted a number down in the margin of his paper and went back to his notes, totally unperturbed.

Feeling a bit like an intruder, Mac let her eyes skim the pad, curious what kind of work James did. His notes seemed to be a summary of some kind of production schedule, with dates and multiple arrows outlining a snaking path across the page.

With a heavy _clunk_, followed by a loud whirring noise, the captain of the airplane lowered the landing gear. Mac closed her eyes briefly. Since Harm wasn't there, she didn't have to work so hard to hide her fear of flying. Besides, it wasn't so much the flying that bothered her. It was what would happen if something went wrong.

James wrote down another number as they made the turn onto final. Mac stared at the little column of numbers as something tickled the corner of her brain. Mac knew the feeling from long experience: it was the same feeling she got when she knew she was missing an important detail in a case. She looked away, out the window, and tried to let her subconscious take over the analysis. Why would a couple of scribbled numbers in the margin of a businessman's pad tweak her lawyer's instincts?

Then it clicked. Her steadfast internal clock gave her a perfect record of the time lapse between any two events in her life. It was the only area in which she had perfect recall, but in that her memory was irrefutable. And that skill now told her that James' column of numbers represented a record of exactly how long each leg of the approach had taken.

__

Curious. Mac tried not to jump to any paranoid conclusions. Just because he was of Middle Eastern descent... It would be like saying _she_ was a reasonable terrorist suspect because of her own Iranian blood. So why did she suddenly feel so alarmed? 

"So what does your company do?" she asked James as casually as she could manage.

"Hmm?" He looked up. "Oh. We make shipping containers."

"Like the kind they put on cargo ships?"

He shrugged. "Ships, aeroplanes, trains, lorries... we make just about everything." There was a note of pride in his voice. He dug around inside his suit jacket, emerging with a business card. "Here."

Mac took the card from his fingers, glancing at it before returning her attention to James. The card said, _Pyramid Cargo Industrie, James Farokhi, Regional Sales Representative. _"Thanks. I doubt I can win you any business from the U.S. military, though."

He grinned. "Not to worry. They're one of our biggest customers."

Mac arched an eyebrow, truly curious now. "Really?"

James chuckled. "Yes. It's not my account, though, more's the shame."

While they were talking, their aircraft had descended to the runway. Out of the corner of her eye, Mac saw the ground looming close, then felt the lurch as the landing gear touched down. James glanced at his watch and added another number to his column. Mac matched it to her internal clock. His watch was accurate to the second, she noted.

The reverse thrusters roared as the airplane began to decelerate, making further conversation impossible. Mac tucked the business card into her purse and began gathering her things. She wasn't entirely sure why his behavior bothered her.

__

Probably because someone tried to kill you a couple of days ago, so now you're suspicious of every little thing. She glanced once more at James. Still, it wouldn't be too hard to check out, would it?

#

"Here's the latest take from the Predators, boss." One of Webb's team brought in a sheaf of color prints, which he spread out on the long conference table. Dawn was just breaking, turning the dark sky a luminescent navy blue and outlining the mountains in shades of pink and orange. 

Harm ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up. He'd been crashed out on a cot in the corner of the busy room, catching a little sleep while he could. But the arrival of the newest set of pictures from the Predator UAVs was enough to drag him from his nap. He walked over to where Clay, Serina and John Burke, the nuclear specialist, had gathered.

"How old are these?" Webb asked the man who'd brought the pictures—Bradbury, Harm thought his name was.

"About four hours. The military boys always get first crack." The last was said with the thinly veiled sarcasm Harm had come to expect from Webb's agents. 

Clay glanced at Harm, fingering the edge of one of the pictures. "These are infrared images," he told the Naval officer. "The Predators have been sweeping a fifty mile radius around the contact site."

Harm rolled his eyes at his friend. The dark pictures with scattered blobs of red and orange couldn't be anything else.

"As you can see," Bradbury went on, "There are a number of people out and about, but none of them have horses." He tapped a couple of distinctly non-human blobs. "These two are camels—look like they're bedded down for the night with their owners." The men's shapes were clearly visible, stretched out on the ground a short distance away. "Other than that all we see are the usual night animals."

Clay sighed. "So, assuming we didn't miss him somehow, Anwar is still in the caves."

Bradbury nodded.

"How far are we estimating he could have traveled by now?" Harm asked Clay with a quick glance at his watch.

"As much as thirty miles, assuming the tunnels run that far and remain large enough throughout to allow a horse to pass."

Harm could only shake his head. "That's assuming a lot."

Clay shrugged. "Tell me about it."

Harm shifted his attention to the large map of the region that lay beneath the new scattering of pictures. "Any ideas yet on where he might be headed?"

"Take your pick." Clay yawned, then shook his head sharply before refocusing on the map. "There are a dozen small towns in the area, any of which could be a rendezvous point to pass the plutonium off. There's Khost, which is larger but also known as a frequent stop for Taliban crossing the border into Pakistan. And, further away is Jalabad."

"He's not going to pass the plutonium off," Burke commented. When the others looked at him, he shrugged. "This guy's a nuclear physicist. I doubt he'll trust anybody but himself to look after his baby."

Harm's head snapped up at his choice of words. "Wait." He held up a hand as his thoughts veered away on a new heading. "What about Anwar's _real_ baby? His son."

Clay raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're advocating bringing Anwar's child into this? What happened to those Boy Scout morals?"

Harm shot him a dirty look. "I'm not advocating anything that would threaten an innocent, Clay, and you know it. But do you think Anwar has given up his son for good? He'll be looking to reclaim him at some point, right?"

Clay watched him thoughtfully. "O.k. That's definitely worth thinking about some more, but let's table it for now. We've got Mojaddedi's compound under surveillance, but I highly doubt Anwar's going to go anywhere near it, at least not in the near future. And if the boy leaves the compound, we'll definitely keep an eye on where he goes."

Harm nodded. He agreed with Clay's logic, he just hadn't wanted the idea to get away. "O.k. Back to Anwar's destination." He glanced between Clay and Burke. "We know that wherever the plutonium ends up, Anwar is going to have to end up, too, whether they travel together or not. But where do you have to go to fabricate a nuclear weapon? Isn't that first-world technology? That would have to pare down the possible list of destinations, I would think."

Burke shook his head. "Sorry, Commander, but that's not true. The machining requirements are pretty precise, but no more so than is required for astronomical telescopes, which can be built pretty much anywhere. The equipment can be bought commercially, as can most of the components except the plutonium. And only a few of those are rare enough to engender any notice."

Harm stared at him, appalled by how easy he made it sound. "If that's true, why doesn't every terrorist organization in the world have its own nuclear weapons?"

Burke frowned. "Two reasons." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Lack of fissionable material, and lack of knowledge. Despite how basic and immutable the physics, the fact of the matter is that it takes someone with a tremendous depth of knowledge to design and build a working nuclear weapon, particularly from scratch. It has taken years of study and experimentation for the U.S. to achieve that level of knowledge, and we've shared it sparingly. The other nuclear powers have arrived at the same general body of knowledge by much the same path, and not without a few deadly errors along the way. It's dangerous work. 

"Any physics major at any decent university could tell you how a nuclear weapon functions. A very few of those could come up with a workable design without an extensive experimentation program, but none of them has access to the amount of fissionable material that would be required to make their device work."

"Does Anwar have the depth of knowledge?"

Burke nodded solemnly. "If he's really this Jaeger person, then yes, he does."

A cold, hard knot formed in Harm's stomach. "So what you're saying is that, if we lose Anwar here, he could go just about anywhere in the world to build his bomb."

Once again Burke nodded. "Yep. That's it."

Harm looked past the nuclear physicist to Clayton Webb. The CIA agent returned his stare, the silent communication quick and effective. They had to find Hamzah Anwar.


	13. 12

Chapter 12

Colonel Flynn strode into the conference room under a full head of steam. Conversations died as everyone looked up expectantly. Harm rose from his seat, coming to attention as quickly as exhaustion and his horrendously stiff ribs would allow. Flynn nodded briefly in acknowledgement as he passed the Naval officer, allowing him to relax.

"We've got a likely destination for Anwar," Flynn said without preamble, catching the large map on the table and rotating it toward himself. Harm, Clay and several others immediately gathered around him.

"Where does the information come from?" Clay asked

"Mojaddedi." Flynn studied the map. "He finally agreed to give us information about Anwar in exchange for returning to his house. He seems desperately worried about the little boy—his grandnephew. I also get the feeling he disapproves of what the boy's father is doing."

Clay raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think this isn't a trick to get Mojaddedi back to his fortified compound, Colonel?"

Flynn pursed his lips. "First, we have the entire compound cordoned off. For now, even the house servants aren't being allowed to leave to return to the village." He glanced at Harm. "And before you ask, yes, I've had the sergeant in charge ask at the gate to make sure they have food and water." He returned his attention to Clay. "Second, I informed Mr. Mojaddedi that if he attempted to use returning to his home as the first step in launching any kind of violence against American forces, I would give him ten minutes to allow the boy and the servants to leave through the front gate. Then I would shell the compound." 

"Killing Mojaddedi would cost you a lot of good will around here, Colonel," Webb observed. 

Flynn only shrugged. "Then let's hope he's not planning to betray my confidence."

Clay regarded him intently, but didn't respond.

Flynn tapped the map. "Mojaddedi says his nephew has friends here in Duma, and in Khost." He tapped the two towns' locations. "I have their names." He handed Clay a piece of paper from his breast pocket.

Clay took the paper, studying it for a moment before handing it off to one of his people. "Thank you, Colonel. We'll get right on this. Hopefully one of these men will lead us to Anwar."

Flynn turned to Harm. "Commander, what are your plans?"

"For now, sir, I'll stay here. Once we have a solid bead on Anwar, I intend to go with whoever is sent to apprehend him. If at all possible, we'd like to keep him alive, and my presence will also help insure that we'll be able to prosecute him for his crimes."

Colonel Flynn looked between Harm and Clay. "Gentlemen, until that plutonium is secured, Anwar's fate is secondary. If the most expedient course is to shoot him and take the plutonium off his dead body, then that's what we'll do."

Harm nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Understood," added Clay.

#

Sturgis was waiting to meet Mac as she made her way past the security checkpoint and into the main body of the airport. He grinned when he saw her, immediately holding out his hand to take her bag. For once, Mac surrendered it without protest. 

"How was your flight, Colonel?" Sturgis asked as they turned toward short-term parking.

Mac felt a swift chill, but pushed it away. Now wasn't the time to dwell on James Farokhi. She summoned a smile. "Long. Boring." She shrugged. "But I only had to sign a few autographs this time." She glanced up at Sturgis. "Have you heard from Harm?"

He shook his head. "Not since we found out you were coming back to the States. Congratulations, by the way." 

Mac grinned, instinctively touching her stomach. "Thanks."

"How did Harm take the news?"

She grinned. "He was ecstatic." The memory filled her with warmth.

"I'll bet."

They made their way to the parking structure and Sturgis led the way to the car. He held the door for Mac, then put her bag in the trunk before getting in on the driver's side.

"Things must be pretty slow at JAG if they sent you to pick me up," Mac commented as they pulled out of the parking space.

Sturgis chuckled. "Actually, I had to flip Lieutenant Simms for the privilege."

Mac flushed at the oblique praise and looked out the window as they got onto the highway, headed into the city. Washington D.C. sweltered in the mid-summer heat, looking pale and washed-out. Even the monuments' normally pristine white surfaces seemed more the color of bleached bone, and the sky was hazy with smog.

Mac sighed. "Home sweet home."

"Cheer up, Colonel. It's supposed to rain tonight." He switched topics. "Do you want me to drop you off at home? The Admiral said you didn't need to report in until tomorrow at 0800."

Mac shook her head. "I'd rather head in to the office, Sturgis. If I go home now I'll probably fall asleep and I'd like to try to get back on Washington time as quickly as possible."

Sturgis accepted that without argument. Mac leaned her head back against the headrest with a smile. Harm would have tried to talk her out of it, or at least attempted to bribe her with a list of all the things they could do at home that they couldn't do at the office. As her thoughts drifted, the hypnotic motion of the car quickly lulled her to sleep. 

Mac found herself standing on an empty beach. The dry sand was cold beneath her feet, and the waves broke hard against some rocks jutting out into the blue-gray water. A cold wind blew in from off shore, bringing the salt-smell of the ocean with it.

A warm raindrop splattered across Mac's face, startling her. She wiped it away, only to discover a red streak across her fingertips. She looked up. High overhead, a group of birds wheeled and dove, slashing at each other with beaks and talons. Their harsh, screaming cries pierced the ocean's steady roar. They weren't seagulls, Mac realized immediately, but birds of prey. Hawks, perhaps? She couldn't tell, though whatever they were, they all seemed to be of the same kind.

Mac knew raptors didn't usually congregate in large groups, but it seemed for all the world as if a flock had suddenly turned on itself, dissolving into a vicious aerial battle. Blood and feathers rained down around her as a broken-winged body plummeted into the waves a short ways away.

"We're here."

Mac woke with a gasp, her heart hammering in her ears. For a moment she couldn't figure out where she was. Terror seized her, knotting her muscles and bringing a sharp stab of pain from her broken wrist.

"Mac, are you o.k.?" 

The world snapped back into place at the sound of Sturgis' voice. Mac turned to find him watching her with concern. They were pulling up to the guard shack outside JAG headquarters. The sun shone, hot and cheerful, outside the car windows.

Trying to catch her breath, Mac scrubbed her face with her good hand and smoothed her hair. "Uh, yeah," she told Sturgis as she collected herself. "I was having a weird dream."

"What kind of weird?" Sturgis wanted to know as they pulled out their IDs to show to the Marine guard.

"Scary-weird," Mac answered. "I was standing on a beach and there were birds killing each other in the air over my head." She shivered convulsively.

Sturgis eyed her suspiciously. "Uh oh. This isn't one of _those_ dreams, is it?"

She managed a smile at his tone, but it died quickly. "I'm not sure... maybe." She had that thick sense of foreboding that went with such dreams.

Sturgis sighed. "Well, I have to confess I'm a believer in your... unusual abilities, Colonel. So let me know if you want some help tracking down what it means."

Warmed by his confidence, Mac flashed him a genuine smile. "Thanks, Sturgis."

He nodded. "Any time."

#

"_Found him!_"

The cry from John Burke brought both Harm and Clay to him at a run. They were the only three people remaining in the command center at Site Echo. The rest of Clay's team had scattered to the towns of Duma and Khost to track Anwar's acquaintances. 

"You've found Anwar?" Clay demanded.

Burke grabbed up a couple of the infrared images he'd been studying and pushed past the other two men, headed for the map table. "I can't believe I was so _stupid_!" He tossed the pictures down and leaned his hands on the table, obviously struggling to maintain his self-control. Abruptly he straightened.

"Yes, Anwar," he told his boss. He pointed to the two infrared photos from the Predator sweeps. "That's him right there."

Harm looked with interest over Clay's shoulder as the CIA agent picked up one of the images. The picture showed a single man walking across the dark background.

"This guy doesn't have a horse," Clay said.

Burke nodded. "I know. That's why I'm such an idiot. He doesn't need one. Look at the color gradients." He pointed to the red and orange marbling that made up the man's figure. "See that bright red spot near his waist? That's the plutonium. He's carrying it in a pack."

Harm frowned in confusion. "Won't the radiation kill him?"

Burke shook his head. "No, Commander. That's the thing. Our information indicated that the plutonium was weapons grade—mostly Plutonium 239 with some small fraction of Plutonium 240. It's not particularly dangerous in that form."

Harm's thoughts were turning. "But the last time we tracked stolen plutonium, the radiation killed just about everyone who came into contact with it."

"That was waste material—Plutonium 238 with who-knows-what other isotopes mixed in. Radiates a lot of hard gammas, which no one can survive for long. The danger from that so-called dirty nuke you stopped was inhalation of the plutonium particles, which are deadly. That stuff could never have fueled an actual nuclear explosion."

Harm didn't know much about nuclear physics, so he had to take the man's word. He went back to the two infrared photos. "How sure are you about this?"

Burke frowned. "Very. People don't have hotspots like that on their bodies. Look—" He picked up a pencil and, referencing the data printed on the margin of each image, drew two marks on the map. "The first Predator sweep had Anwar here—" He pointed to his first mark. "Approximately seven hours ago. Two hours ago, he was here." He pointed to the second mark, which was several miles southwest of the first. With the pencil, Burke drew a straight line from the site of the Marine's conflict with Aashiq Mir's men through the two marks. The continuation of the line ran straight into Khost. 

Clay looked up and grinned. "Then we've got him."

Harm nodded, excitement stirring in his chest. "I'll let the colonel know. With the choppers we can get him before he gets to Khost."


	14. 13

Chapter 13

There were two helicopters sitting on the pad. The first's rotor had begun to spin up, the lazy turns increasing speed with each rotation. The sound of the turbofan engine spooling was enough like that of an F-14 that it sent a tingle of adrenaline through Harm. He stood with Clay while the Recon Marines ran past them to board the first Huey. 

"Good luck, Harm," Clay told him, extending his hand. 

Harm shook it. "You're headed to Khost?"

Clay nodded. "Once your people have Anwar, we'll move in on his contacts—see where they leads us."

"My people? They're Marines, Clay."

Clay shrugged. "And they're _all_ your inlaws. Deal with it."

One of the Marines shouted at Harm to get aboard. Harm grinned and sketched Clay a salute before turning toward the helicopter. He accepted a hand from the sergeant, who pulled him inside with a shoulder-wrenching yank, then took the empty seat next to the door.

"Belt in, sir," the sergeant yelled over the thunder of the blades, fixing Harm with a scowl.

Harm simply nodded. He secured his rifle, then went to work fastening the five-point harness across his shoulders and hips. The Huey lurched skyward just as he finished. He watched out the door opening as the rotor on the second helicopter began to turn. The second team would be in the air in just a minute.

The two helicopters headed out across the desert, too high for their shadows to splash across the dun-colored earth. Harm watched the barren ground scroll beneath them. It didn't strike him as odd that here he was—not only a reserve line officer and a squid, but one dangerously near forty years old—jumping into the middle of yet another ground combat situation. Harm was used to the dangerous vagaries of his life, and accustomed to the looks he got. He swept a casual eye over the Marines. They would never say so, of course, but it was obvious they considered him both a lunatic and a liability.

At a signal from the pilot, they readied their weapons. The two helicopters dropped to the deck, skimming across the desert at a hundred feet of altitude. Since Anwar was on foot, the plan was to land a helicopter on either side of him to allow the Marines to surround him and hopefully capture him alive. There was no telling how much the man knew about Al Queda.

They were almost on top of Anwar's expected location when Harm heard the firecracker sound of automatic gunfire. Something pinged off the Huey's fuselage near his head, making him flinch.

"We're taking fire," the pilot reported into his headset, his voice barely audible over the blade noise. "One target, on foot."

The Huey wheeled to give the door gunner room, and Harm caught a glimpse of muzzle flash on the ground before the gunner began firing. The mechanical _chink-chink-chink_ of the gun rang deafeningly in his ears. Little puffs of dust marked where the helicopter's 50mm rounds struck, marching in a straight line toward the robed figure kneeling in the sand. The man—Anwar—recognized the threat and threw himself to the side, rolling to his feet. He took off running for a nearby rock outcropping as the gunner cursed.

The second Huey made a strafing run after Anwar's retreating figure as he dove between two tall, orange-brown rocks that leaned toward each other like a couple of drunks. The rounds burst on the rocks in little explosions of dust and stone fragments. Harm was pretty sure Anwar had made it within their protection in time, however.

"Let's go get him," the lieutenant yelled, signaling to the pilot to set down. 

They were only fifteen feet off the ground when a rocket streaked toward them from the interior of the rock outcropping. The unguided rocket, tipped with a shaped charge designed to blow holes in tank armor, slammed into the rotor hub of their Huey. The hub disintegrated, spewing bits of metal gearing in all directions. The suddenly detached rotor blades spun outward at several hundred miles per hour. One clipped the tail of the second Huey, shearing off the last third of the tail boom. Destabilized by the loss of its tail rotor, the body of the second helicopter began to spin wildly.

Harm felt the rocket's impact, but was aware of little beyond the wave of flame and smoke that ripped through the fuselage and the instinctive knowledge that he was falling. He heard cries from the Marines as shrapnel from the explosion speared through the compartment. Their helicopter slammed into the ground with bone-jarring force, tumbling onto its side. The nylon straps of Harm's harness bit into his ribs, eliciting a cry of pain. His vision grayed for a moment as he struggled to breathe, but soon sight and awareness returned. His side felt like it was on fire. He struggled to orient himself, discovering that he was hanging sideways in the harness, his shoulder braced against the sergeant's beefy form. A second look revealed the sergeant's eyes—open and sightless—and a bloody mess where his jaw had once been. A piece of shrapnel had shattered the lower half of the other man's face and probably severed his spine, Harm guessed. He raised a hand to his cheek, realizing then that the sergeant's blood was splattered across him.

Around Harm, the surviving marines were struggling out of their harnesses, a task made even more difficult for the helicopter being on its side. The lieutenant, whose name Harm couldn't remember if he'd ever known it, was already atop the fuselage and seemed to be doing a decent job getting his men organized and evacuated.

Shaking off his stupor, Harm went to work on his harness. He had it free in a matter of seconds and, grabbing his rifle from where it had wedged between himself and the sergeant, scrambled out of his seat.

"Commander, are you hurt?" the lieutenant asked as he offered Harm a hand to help him climb out onto the new roof of the downed aircraft.

"No," Harm answered, scrabbling to find purchase with his boots. "But the sergeant is dead." With the lieutenant's help, he clambered up beside the other man and looked around. A marine knelt just aft of the cockpit door, his weapon trained on the rocks. Two others lay prone on the dusty ground flanking the nose, rifles ready. About a hundred yards distant, the other helicopter lay in a crumpled, burning mound. Flames outlined the blackened skeleton of the Huey. Dark smoke billowed up from the wreckage like some kind of hideous signal flare. Harm didn't see any sign of survivors.

"Where's Anwar?" Harm asked the lieutenant as they helped the last of the Marines climb out of the helicopter. One, a lance corporal, had a deep laceration on his shoulder that coated the arm of his uniform in blood.

"Gone, if he's smart. Khost is less than ten miles west of here." The lieutenant handed the wounded marine down to others on the ground. Harm made a quick count. Two men remained inside the helicopter, dead. Two others he could see were stretched out on the ground, badly injured, including one of the pilots. Several, like the lance corporal, had more minor injuries.

"How long until we get reinforcements?" Harm wanted to know.

The lieutenant shook his head. "Maybe an hour. There aren't any more aircraft at Echo right now. They'll have to come over land."

Harm bit his lip. In an hour, Anwar would be most of the way to Khost, and the closer he got to that town, the greater their chances of losing him. He made a quick decision. 

"I'm going after Anwar."

"No way, sir."

Harm looked at the lieutenant in surprise, more for his authoritative tone than what he said. 

"On foot? No disrespect, sir, but you'll get yourself killed. We'll go after this guy as soon as the reinforcements get here."

"That could be too late."

The lieutenant moved in a crouch toward the sloping edge of the fuselage where he could jump down. Harm followed him. When they were both on the ground, the lieutenant turned.

"Doesn't the CIA have people in Khost?"

Harm cracked a grin despite the pain that had stabbed through his ribs when his feet hit the ground. "Lieutenant, do you really want to trust the safety of the free world to spooks?"

The marine snorted in grim amusement. "Point." He turned his head. "Ellis! Fontaine!"

Two marine corporals left their perimeter guard positions and ran up to the lieutenant. "Sir," they said in unison.

The lieutenant gestured toward Harm. "The commander here is going hunting, gentlemen. I want you to watch his back."

From the looks the two sent him, Harm guessed the implication was more along the line of babysitting than back-watching. He grimaced to himself as he looked the two men over. Both were young, fit, and tanned by their months under the Afghan sun. 

With a nod to the lieutenant, Harm sent Ellis to round up as much water as the others could spare and had the second marine, Fontaine, gather up weapons, a first aid kit, and a radio.

Harm used the radio to contact Webb and let him know what had happened. He concluded with, "We're going to try to track Anwar from this end, but he's got a significant head start."

"You'd better find him, Rabb." Frustration bubbled just beneath the surface of Clay's voice. Harm knew better than to take offense. "We've got his friends covered here, but there's nothing that says he'll try to contact any of them. Especially now."

Harm sighed. "I know. We'll do what we can. I'll call you when I know more."

"Right."

Harm put the radio away and the three men set off across the desert at a jog. Burdened as he was with kevlar, M-16, and a small pack—and with his side pinching at each stride—Harm wasn't sure he could run the full ten miles to Khost. But he was certainly going to try. The dry desert air whipped around them, scattering dust in long plumes before suddenly dying away. 

Corporal Fontaine brought a pair of binoculars, which he used at regular intervals to scan the horizon. Unfortunately, the land was trending upward, toward the first little ripple of a ridge that would eventually grow into the towering mountains Harm could see in the distance before them. Near the crest of the ridge they threw themselves flat, then crawled the rest of the way to the top to keep their silhouettes from becoming visible. 

Harm was breathing hard, his side aching with fiery pain. He grabbed the canteen from his belt and took a swig of metallic-tasting, lukewarm water while Fontaine plied his binoculars. The land swept down from their position into a broad basin cut with dry streambeds. The town of Khost looked like a collection of toy houses in the distance. Harm picked out the distinctive dome of a mosque and a couple of larger structures that he took to be government building of some sort. Everything was made in the white adobe-like style of the desert. From a distance the town looked peaceful, even sleepy.

"Got him, sir," the corporal reported after a moment, not sounding the least bit winded. "About four klicks ahead of us."

Harm unlimbered his rifle. Propping himself on his elbows, he peered through the scope. "Where?"

"He's following the streambed with the dark red streaks in it." 

Harm found the streambed easily—the water's erosion had uncovered layers of some kind of ferrous deposit, which had turned the soil a dark red. He followed the ravine's meandering course until he found a lone figure jogging down the center. Quickly, Harm got out the radio. He gave Clay an update then he and the two corporals headed down the gentle incline toward the same ravine Anwar was using. Most likely, they would arrive too late to do any good—Anwar's head start was just too big. The CIA would move to intercept him as he entered the town. But, at least they could cut off his retreat.

Harm suppressed a groan as they set off again. The pain in his side flared with each step, sending a red wave across his vision in time to his footsteps. Thoughts of internal injuries floated through his mind, but he pushed them away with determination. The situation was desperate. If Anwar got away because Harm gave anything less than his absolute best effort, he would never forgive himself, and a lot of people might lose their lives. So he pushed onward toward Khost with the two marines flanking him.


	15. 14

Chapter 14

They heard the first gunshots when they were still half a mile outside of Khost.  Both marines glanced at Harm, their ears no doubt interpreting the varied sounds as easily as his own.  There were at least two handguns as well as several rifles involved in the sporadic exchange, and, unfortunately, it sounded like Anwar might have picked up some friends in town.

"Sounds like the party's started without us," Fontaine commented as all three men picked up their pace.  

A few minutes later, the outskirts of Khost swallowed them.  The gunfire had given way to silence.  Dusty streets, hastily abandoned, reminded Harm of the westerns he'd watched as a kid.  All they needed were some tumbleweed and a campy musical score.  

Harm's radio crackled.  He grabbed it, his eyes continuing to scan the darkened windows and doorways that lined the street along which they walked.

"Rabb," he answered.

"Where are you?" Clay's voice held its usual impatient edge, unobscured by the static filling the transmission.

Harm didn't have any breath left to joke around.  "We just entered town."  Clay would know which direction they were coming from, so additional details would only increase their risk.  "Where's Anwar?"

"We've got him pinned down in a rug shop north of the mosque."  Harm had seen the distinctive dome-shaped structure as they approached the city.  "But if he breaks loose, he'll most likely be headed your way."

"How many people are with him?"

"Three or four."

"Roger that," Harm acknowledged. 

He returned the radio to his belt as the three of them moved up the vacant street in a loose wedge.  Corporal Fontaine had point with Harm and Corporal Ellis flanking him.  Not long after, their path intersected a thoroughfare running almost directly East-West through the center of the town.  The street was cobbled with sandstone blocks, and nearly wide enough for two cars to pass.  Like the rest of the area, the street seemed deserted, though Harm caught an occasional glimpse of faces peering out at them from shadowed recesses.

"This will take us to the mosque, sir," Fontaine told him, indicating the new street.

Harm nodded and waved him forward, then turned his attention back to the empty shop fronts that surrounded them.  If any of the civilians hiding inside had a weapon and decided to use it, they could be in a world of trouble.  

They had only gone about a hundred yards when the sound of gunfire erupted again, this time much closer.  The three soldiers immediately spread out, taking up defensive positions on either side of the street.  Harm jammed his back against the rough adobe wall, eliciting a grunt of pain.  Next to him, Corporal Fontaine dropped to one knee and raised his rifle.

Harm grabbed his radio.  "Clay! What's going on up there?"

For a moment, only silence answered.  Then the radio crackled and Clay's voice emerged, scratchy and filled with pain.  "Heads up, Rabb.  Anwar's got a vehicle."

Harm didn't have a chance to ask for any further details as the growl of a diesel engine starting split the air.

"Look sharp," he told the two corporals.  "Anwar'll be headed our way any minute."  The narrow streets guaranteed it.  A heavy vehicle wouldn't fit down anything but the boulevard on which they stood.  He motioned to Fontaine to follow him as he backed toward the nearest doorway.  

Harm drew on his crash course in Marine Recon as he cleared the interior of the little shop, earning him a nod of surprised approval from the corporal.  The shop's proprietor had wisely departed out the back, so they took cover in the open doorway.  Across the street, Corporal Ellis was doing the same.

"It ain't much of an ambush, sir, but it'll have to do," Fontaine concluded.

Harm didn't have time to answer as a drab-colored truck rounded the corner at high speed.  Like many trucks in that part of the world, the back of the truck was covered in canvas that flapped on its iron frame. Harm spotted two men in the cab, their faces obscured behind a web of cracks in the windshield.

Across the street, Ellis opened fire.  Harm and his companion followed suite, concentrating on the driver of the vehicle.  Harm saw the white-shirted figure jerk spasmodically at the same time as something small and dark arced toward their position and bounced in the dust in front of their feet.

"Grenade!" Fontaine yelled.

Instinctively, Harm threw himself backward, away from the threat.  The grenade exploded in a roar of heat and dust.  Harm felt a flash of pain as he slammed into the ground.  For a moment, he lay stunned, feeling the patter of falling debris and bits of plaster on his scalp as it rained down around him.  Apparently he'd lost his helmet. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the splatter of gunfire.

"Fontaine?" he rasped.  He coughed to clear his lungs, the spasm sending a red wave of pain through him.  "You okay?"

The gunfire stopped.  Groaning, Harm forced himself to roll over.  Through the gaping hole that had once been the doorway, he could see tail end of the truck.  As he watched, a man jumped down from the back—Anwar.

Harm shoved himself to his feet.  A little ways away, Fontaine lay on his side, both hands clasping a shrapnel wound in his stomach.  He looked like he was barely clinging to consciousness.  

Staggering, Harm grabbed his rifle from where it had fallen and went to the hole in the wall.  Across the street, he could see one of Ellis's boots sticking out of his doorway, the rest of his body hidden by shadow inside the building.  Harm couldn't tell if he was dead or not, but he wasn't moving.

Anwar walked around to the near side of the truck and headed for the cab.  He opened the driver's door and began to pull the man's limp form out from behind the wheel.

Harm cautiously approached, his rifle trained on his quarry.  Anwar didn't notice him until he was only a couple of yards away.  The terrorist spun around, his hand going to his waistband where the butt of a handgun protruded from his belt.

Harm pulled the trigger.  About halfway through the motion, the rifle jammed.  Harm had only a moment to realize his weapon must have been damaged in the blast before finding himself on the wrong end of Anwar's .45.  He froze.

"Drop the rifle." Anwar's English was clear, though tinged with a German accent.  "And your belt."

Harm obeyed slowly, tossing his useless rifle aside and then unfastening the utility belt that held, among other things, his sidearm.  He tossed that away, too, his gaze never leaving Anwar, and raised his hands.

"Back up."

Harm took two steps backward.  Around them, nothing moved.  

"Turn around and get down on your knees."  Anwar watched him calmly over the pistol sights.

Harm realized his opportunities were rapidly dwindling, but there was little he could do.  The terrorist wisely kept his distance, making it impossible for Harm to try to take the gun.  So he obeyed—slowly—hoping for a miracle.  The rough edges of the paving stones sent spikes of pain through his knees, but that paled against the sharp stab of each breath.  A little voice in his head whispered to him that he was about to die.  He closed his eyes for a bitter moment, reflecting.  How cruel was it that a third generation of Rabbs would be forced to grow up without a father?  

"Your son is safe, Anwar," he said abruptly.  "He's with his grandfather."

Rubber scraped against stone as Anwar took a step closer.  "Why would you tell me such a thing, American?  Are you trying to threaten me?"

Harm opened his eyes, staring at the grenade-ravaged store front in front of him.  His only hope lay in this single connection between them. "No threat."  An image of Mac filled his mind's eye—her proud, glowing smile at the thought of the life growing inside her.  "I just… thought you'd want to know he's safe.  You won't be able to go back for him."

There was a short pause.  "We must all make sacrifices, commander," Anwar said softly.

Harm felt something slam into the back of his head, and everything went away.

#


End file.
